THREE  CENTURIES 


OF 


Southern  Poetry 


(1607-1907) 


CARL  HOLLIDAY,  M.A. 

Professor  of  English  Literature,  Cox  College,  Atlanta.     Author  of 
A  History  of  Southern  Literature,  The  Cotton- 
Picker  and  Other  Poems,  Etc. 


NASHVILLE,  TENN.;  DALLAS,  TEX. 

PUBLISHING  HOUSE  OF  THE  M.  E.  CHURCH,  SOUTH 

SMITH  &  LAMAR,  AGENTS 


COPYRIGHT,    1908, 
By   .... 
SMITH    £VLJvifAx.;; .: 


Ota 

THAT      MOST      PUEASANT      OF      MEN 
AND      MOST      ZEALOUS      OF      TEACHERS, 

Ir. 


M147636 


PREFACE. 

WITHIN  the  last  decade  the  interest  in  Southern  literature 
has  become  widespread.  Nearly  every  Southern  college  and 
university  now  offers  a  course  in  the  subject,  and  the  summer 
schools  and  Chautauquas  frequently  make  it  a  special  feature. 
All  this  is  as  it  should  be.  There  nre  Southern  writers  scarce 
ly  known  by  name  to-day  who  are  deserving  of  careful  atten 
tion.  Especially  is  this  true  among  the  Southern  poets,  who, 
amidst  prosperity  and  adversity,  have  sung  songs  of  gladness 
and  of  sorrow  that  stand  among  the  finest  productions  in 
American  literature.  How  few  of  them  are  intimately,  lov 
ingly  known  at  the  present  day ! 

This  collection  is  made  in  the  hope  that  still  further  in 
terest  may  be  aroused.  Other  collections  have  been  made, 
but  they  have  dealt  almost  entirely  with  the  poets  living  in 
the  first  sixty  years  of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  the  present 
compilation  specimens  are  given  from  three  centuries  of 
Southern  verse — from  1607  to  1907.  Because  of  this  fact 
the  book,  it  is  hoped,  will  be  of  interest  not  only  to  students 
of  literature,  but  also  to  students  of  history  and  to  lovers  of 
the  old  and  curious  in  general. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  work  many  courtesies  have  been 
extended  to  me.  To  the  publishers  and  holders  of  copyrights 
whose  kind  permission  to  use  selections  has  been  granted  me, 
I  make  grateful  acknowledgments.  My  special  thanks  are  due 
Dr.  W.  P.  Trent,  of  Columbia  University,  Dr.  William  H. 
Browne,  of  Johns  Hopkins  University,  Mrs.  Janey  Hope 
Marr,  of  Blacksburg,  Va.,  Messrs.  Brentano,  of  New  York, 
and  B.  F.  Johnson  Publishing  Company,  the  authorized  pub 
lishers  of  Timrod's  poems.  Without  their  help  this  volume 
could  not  have  reached  its  present  form. 

CARL  HOLLIDAY. 

Cox  College,  Atlanta. 

(5) 


CONTENTS. 

i. 

THE  BEGINNINGS. 

(1607-1740.) 

R.  RICH,  GENT -^ 

Newes    from   Virginia ij 

JOHN  SMITH   (1579-1631) 19 

The  Sea  Mark I9 

GEORGE  SANDYS  ( 1578-1644) 20 

Procne's   Revenge 21 

GEORGE  ALSOP  ( 1638-16—) 22 

Upon  a  Purple  Cap 22 

ANONYMOUS  23 

Bacon's   Epitaph    ( 1676) 23 

EBENEZER  COOK 25 

The   Sot-Weed  Factors 25 

He  Meets  a  Quaker 2^ 

He  Goes  to  Court 26 


II. 
THE  REVOLUTIONARY  PERIOD. 

(1740-1815.) 

ANONYMOUS  ^o 

Virginia  Hearts  of  Oak 3O 

CHARLES  HENRY  WHARTON  (1748-     ) 3I 

The  Eulogy  of  George  Washington 32 

HUGH  HENRY  BRACKENRIDGE  (1748-1816) 32 

Warren's  Last   Words 3^ 

From  "The  Death  of  General  Montgomery" 34 

ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER  (1752-1828) 34 

Days  of  My  Youth ss 

(7) 


8 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

WILLIAM  MUNFORD  ( 1775-1825) 36 

The  Triumph  of  Hector 36 

JOHN  SHAW  ( 1778-1809) 38 

Song  38 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON  (1779-1843) 39 

Immortality  39 

On  the  Late  S.  T.  Coleridge 40 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY  (1779-1843) 40 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner 41 

WILLIAM  MAXWELL  ( 1784-1857) 43 

To  a  Fair  Lady 43 

To  Anne 43 

RICHARD  DABNEY  (1787-1825) 44 

An  Epigram  Imitated  from  Archias 44 

Youth  and  Age 45 

III. 

THE  PERIOD  OF  EXPANSION. 
(1815-1850.) 

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE  ( 1789-1847) 50 

Stanzas  50 

To  the  Mocking  Bird 51 

A  Farewell  to  America 51 

MTRABEAU  BONAPARTE  LAMAR  ( 1708-1859) 53 

The  Daughter  of  Mendoza 53 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY  ( 1802-1825) 54 

A  Health 55 

Votive  Song 55 

A  Serenade 57 

GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE  (1802-1870) 57 

Lines  to  a  Lady 58 

The  Closing  Year 58 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS  (1806-1870) 61 

The  Grapevine  Swing 62 

The  Lost  Pleiad 62 

Song  in  March 64 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POEI  ( 1809-1849) 65 

Israfel  67 

The  Bells 69 

Annabel  Lee 72 

The  Raven 73 

To  One  in  Paradise 79 

The  Conqueror  Worm 80 

ALBERT  PIKE  (1809-1891) 82 

To  the  Mocking  Bird 82 

To  Spring 84 

Every  Year 86 

ALEXANDER  BEAUFORT  MEEK  (1814-1865) 88 

Land'  of  the  South 88 

The  Mocking  Bird 90 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE  ( 1816-1850) 92 

Florence  Vane 92 

SEVERN  TEACKLE  WALLIS  (1816-1894) 94 

The  Blessed  Hand 94 

AMELIA  WELBY  (1819-1852) 97 

Twilight  at  Sea 97 

To  a  Seashell 97 

THEODORE  O'HARA  (1820-1867) 98 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead 98 

IV. 

THE  CIVIL  WAR  PERIOD. 
(1850-1875.) 

PLANTATION    MELODIES 107 

Mourner's   Song 108 

Roll,  Jordan,  Roll 108 

Heaven jog 

Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot 109 

The  Dead 109 

In  de  Mornin' no 

Savannah  Freeman's  Song no 

Lay  Dis  Body  Down in 

Stars  Begin  to  Fall..  .  m 


10  CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

CIVIL  WAR  SONGS in 

Call  All 112 

The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 113 

The  Soldier  Boy 115 

MARGARET  PRESTON  ( 1820-1897) 116 

Calling  the  Angels  In 1 16 

The  Hero  of  the  Commune 1 18 

The  Shade  of  the  Trees 1 19 

A  Grave  in  Hollywood  Cemetery,  Richmond 120 

There'll  Come  a  Day 122 

FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOR  (1822-1874) 122 

Little  Giffen 123 

Virginians  of  the  Valley 124 

JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON  (1823-1873) 125 

Music  in  Camp 126 

The  Battle  Rainbow 128 

JAMES  MATHEWES  LEGARE  ( 1823-1859) 130 

Ahab  Mohammed 130 

To  a  Lily 132 

JAMES  BARRON  HOPE  ( 1827-1887) 133 

From  "Arms  and  the  Man" 133 

From  "The  Charge  at  Balaklava" • 136 

Three  Summer  Studies 137 

Sunset  on  Hampton  Roads 140 

HENRY  TIMROD  (1829-1867) 141 

Sonnet  142 

The  Summer  Bower 143 

Carolina  145 

The  Cotton  Boll 147 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  (1830-1886) 152 

Lyric  of  Action 154 

Aethra  155 

My  Study 156 

The  Mocking  Bird 156 

The  Pine's  Mystery 157 

October  158 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL  (1839-1908) 158 

Maryland  159 

ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN  (1839-1886) 161 

The  Conquered  Banner 162 

Night  Thoughts 164 

The  Sword  of  Robert  Lee 165 

Song  of  the  Mystic 166 

V. 

THE  NEW  SOUTH. 
(1875-1907.) 

SIDNEY  LANIER  ( 1842-1881 ) 173 

A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master 175 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn 175 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee 180 

JOHN  HENRY  BONER  ( 1845-     ) 182 

Poe's  Cottage  at  Fordham 182 

The  Light'ood  Fire 184 

JOHN  BANISTER  TABB  ( 1845-    ) 185 

The  Half-Ring  Moon 185 

My    Star 186 

GEORGE  HERBERT  SASS   ( 1845-     ) 186 

In  a  King-Cambyses  Vein 186 

CARLYLE  McKiNLEY   ( 1847-1904) 188 

Sapelo    189 

WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON  (1848-    ) 191 

The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg 191 

ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON   ( 1850-     ) 194 

Dedication   194 

The  Death  of  Winter 195 

IRWIN   RUSSELL   ( 1853-1879) 196 

Christmas  Night  in  the  Quarters 197 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK  ( 1854-    ) 206 

Bessie  Brown,  M.D 207 

The   Captain's   Feather 208 

The  Grapevine   Swing 209 

Phyllis    210 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE  ( 1856-  ) 212 

The  Yule  Log 212 

Sleep  and  His  Brother  Death 212 

FRANK  L.  STANTON  ( 1857-  ) 213 

Comes  One  with  a  Song 213 

Light  on  the  Hills 214 

HENRY  JEROME  STOCKARD  ( 1858-  ) -. 215 

Homer  216 

YATES  SNOWDEN  ( 1858-  ) 216 

A  Carolina  Bourbon 217 

DANSKE  DANDRIDGE  ( 1859-  ) 219 

The  Dead  Moon 220 

The  Spirit  and  the  Wood  Sparrow 222 

BENJAMIN  SLEDD  ( 1864-  ) 223 

The  Children 223 

MADISON  CAWEIN  ( 1865-  ) 224 

The  Whippoorwill 224 

Disenchantment  of  Death 225 

Love  and  a  Day 227 

LlZETTE    WOODWORTH    REESE    (1856-       ) 228 

In  Sorrow's  Hour 228 

WALTER  MALONE  ( 1866-  ) 229 

A  Portrait  of  Henry  Timrod 229 

NOTES  231 

BIBLIOGRAPHY  260 

INDEX  263 


I. 

THE  BEGINNINGS. 

(1607-1740.) 


GENERAL  SURVEY. 

IN  the  hundred  and  thirty  years  included  between 
the  dates  1607  and  1740  we  find  a  period  of  wonderful 
events.  A  vast,  unknown  continent  was  entered;  a 
wilderness  was  conquered;  a  unique  type  of  civiliza 
tion  was  founded;  and,  amid  heroic  endeavors  and 
untold  suffering,  a  new  nation  had  advanced  to  that 
stage  where  it  could  no  longer  remain  subordinate 
to  another.  There  was  an  admirable  energy  in  the 
characters  of  these  pioneers,  and  the  story  of  their 
onward  march  is  epic  in  itself;  but  the  fact  must  be 
recognized  that  such  a  form  of  life  could  not  be  con 
ducive  to  the  production,  at  that  time,  of  literature 
and  of  the  fine  arts  in  general.  Strenuous  labor  and 
ever-present  hardships  left  but  little  time  and  less  in 
clination  for  the  higher,  subtler,  and  more  refined 
phases  of  life. 

Yet  in  the  South,  as  well  as  in  the  North,  there 
were  some  efforts  toward  literary  expression.  Crude 
they  may  have  been;  yet  they  should  be  remembered 
as  prophecies,  if  for  nothing  else,  of  greater  things 
to  come.  In  the  early  years  of  the  period  the  writings 
were  full  of  wonder;  men  had  never  before  seen  such 
vastness  in  nature.  But  in  the  latter  years  we  find  a 
great  earnestness  and  even  a  bitterness  pervading  the 
literature.  Bacon's  Rebellion  had  roused  the  people, 
and  now  America  was  in  the  midst  of  what  John 

05) 


l;6        .".'tHPEB  CElJTTttelES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


Fiske  has  called  "the  century  of  political  education/' 
extending  from  1676  to  1776.  All  this  is  seen  most 
clearly  in  the  prose  of  the  period  ;  but  here  and  there 
it  may  be  traced  in  the  poetry  also. 


R.  RICH,  GENT. 

Scarcely  anything  is  known  about  this  writer.  It 
is  not  even  certain  that  this  was  his  true  name.  Ac 
cording  to  his  own  statement  he  was  "one  of  the 
voyage"  to  Virginia  in  1609,  and  it  is  believed  that  he 
returned  to  England  during  the  next  year.  His  Newes 
from  Virginia,  extracts  from  which  are  given  here, 
was  published  in  1610. 

NEWES  FROM  VIRGINIA 

Of  the  happy  arrival  of  that  famous  and  worthy  knight,  Sir 
Thomas  Gates,  and  well  reputed  and  valiant  Captaine  New 
port  into  England. 

It  is  no  idle  fabulous  tale,  nor  is  it  fayned  newes : 
For   Truth   herself   is  heere   arriv'd,   because  you 

should  not  muse. 
With  her  both  Gates  and  Newport  come,  to  tell 

Report  doth  lye,* 
Which  did  devulge  unto  the  world,  that  they  at  sea 

did  dye. 

5  The  seas  did  rage,  the  windes  did  blowe,  distressed 

were  they  then; 
Their  ship  did  leake,  her  tacklings  break,  in  daun- 

ger  were  her  men. 
But  heaven  may  pylotte  in  this  storme,  and  to  an 

iland  nere, 
Bermoothawes  call'd,   conducted  them,   which   did 

abate  their  fears. 

To  kill  these  swyne,  to  yield  them  foode  that  little 
had  to  eate, 

(-7) 


1 8  THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

10  Their  store  was  spent,  and  all  things  scant,  alas! 

they  wanted  meate. 
A  thousand  hogges  that  dogge  did  kill,  their  hunger 

to  sustaine, 
And  with  such  foode  did  in  that  ile  two  and  forty 

weekes  remaine. 

And  so  unto  Virginia  came,  where  these  brave  sol 
diers  finde 

The  English-men  opprest  with  greife  and  discon 
tent  in  minde. 

15  They  seem'd  distracted  and  forlorne,  for  those  two 
worthyes  losse, 

Yet  at  their  hoine  returne  they  joyd,  amongst  them 
some  were  crosse. 

Where   they   unto   their   labour    fall,   as  men   that 

meane  to  thrive, 
Let's  pray  that  heaven  may  blesse  them  all,  and 

keep  them  long  alive. 
Those  men  that  vagrants  liv'd  with  us,  have  there 

deserved  well ; 
20  Their  governour  writes  in  their  praise,  as  divers 

letters  tel. 

And  to  th'  adventurers  thus  he  writes  be  not  dis- 

may'd  at  all, 
For  scandall  cannot  doe  us  wrong,  God  will  not 

let  us  fall. 
Let  England  knowe  our  willingness,  for  that  our 

worke  is  goode 
Wee  hope  to  plant  a  nation,  where  none  before  hath 

stood.* 

25  The  number  of  adventurers,  that  are  for  this  plan 
tation, 

Are  full  eight  hundred  worthy  men,  some  noble, 
all  of  fashion. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  19 

Good,  discreete,  their  worke  is  good,  and  as  they 

have  begun, 
May  Heaven  assist  them  in  their  worke,  and  thus 

our  newes  is  done. 


JOHN  SMITH. 


Captain  John  Smith's  fame  is  so  great  that  a  de 
tailed  account  of  his  life  is  unnecessary  here.  He  was 
born  at  Willoughby,  England,  and,  according  to  his 
own  statements,  passed  through  many  thrilling  and 
romantic  adventures  in  his  youth.  He  reached  Amer 
ica  in  April,  1607,  and  immediately  became  the  leading 
spirit  in  the  colonizing  movements.  A  most  versatile 
man,  he  undertook  any  task  that  was  placed  before 
him—  building  houses,  hunting,  governing  men,  ex 
ploring-  the  wilderness,  drawing  maps,  writing  books, 
fighting  Indians,  organizing  new  colonies,  and  even 
essaying  poetry.  His  last  years  were  spent  in  England, 
where  he  was  considered  an  authority  in  all  matters 
connected  with  the  New  World.  He  died  in  London 
in  1631.  The  selection  given  here  was  published  in 
that  year. 

THE  SEA  MARK. 

(Advertisements*  for  the  unexperienced  planters  of  New 
England.) 

Aloof,  aloof,  and  come  no  near. 
The  dangers  do  appear 
Which,  if  my  ruin  had  not  been, 
You  had  not  seen: 


20  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

5  I  only  lie  upon  this  shelf 
To  be  a  mark  to  all 
Which  on  the  same  might  fall, 
That  none  may  perish  but  myself. 

If  in  or  outward  you  be  bound, 
10  Do  not  forget  to  sound; 

Neglect  of  that  was  cause  of  this 

To  steer  amiss. 

The  seas  were  calm,  the  wind  was  fair, 

That  made  me  so  secure 
15  That  now  I  must  endure 

All  weathers,  be  they  foul  or  fair. 

The  winter's  cold,  the  summer's  heat, 
Alternatively  beat 
Upon  my  bruised  sides,  that  rue, 
20  That  no  relief  can  ever  come: 
But  why  should  I  despair, 
Being  promised  so  fair 
That  there  shall  be  a  day  of  Doom? 


GEORGE  SANDYS. 
(1578-1644.) 

The  first  genuine  piece  of  literature  written  in 
America  was  George  Sandys's  translation  of  Ovid's* 
Metamorphoses,  a  work  of  such  merit  as  to  receive 
hearty  praise  from  Dryden  and  Pope.  Sandys  was 
born  of  a  noble  and  influential  family  and  was  edu 
cated  at  Oxford.  Before  his  appointment  as  treas 
urer  of  the  Virginia  Company,  in  1621,  he  had  pub 
lished  the  first  five  books  of  his  translation  of  Ovid, 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  21 


and  upon  his  departure  for  the  New  World  he  was 
urged  by  many  men  of  note  to  continue  the  task  till 
finished.  Here,  in  the  rude  wilderness  and  during 
one  of  the  bloodiest  massacres  in  all  colonial  history, 
he  wrote  the  remainder  of  the  poem,  having,  to  use 
his  own  words,  "wars  and  tumults  to  bring  it  to  light 
instead  of  the  Muses."  These  ten  books  appeared  in 
1626.  Sandys  died  in  Kent,  England,  in  the  spring 
of  1644. 

PROCNE'S  REVENGE. 

(Procne,  avenging  the  unfaithfulness  of  her  husband,  King 
Tereus,  slays  and  prepares  for  his  table  their  own  beloved 
son.  After  eating  heartily,  the  king  calls  for  his  little  boy, 
Itys.) 

Procne  could  not  disguise  her  cruel  joy, 
In  full  fruition  of  her  horrid  ire, 
Thou  hast,  said  she,  within  thee  thy  desire. 
He  looks  about,  asks  where ;  and  while  again 
5  He  asks  and  calls,  all  bloody  with  the  slain, 
Forth  like  a  Fury,  Philomela  flew 
And  at  his  face  the  head  of  Itys  threw  ; 
Nor  ever  more  than  now  desired  a  tongue 
To  express  the  joy  of  her  revenged  wrong. 

10  He  with  loud  outcries  doth  the  board  repel, 
And  calls  the  Furies  from  the  depths  of  hell ; 
Now  tears  his  breast,  and  strives  from  thence  in 

vain 

To  pull  the  abhorred  food ;  now  weeps  amain 
And  calls  himself  his  son's  unhappy  tomb; 

15  Then  draws  his  sword  and  through  the  guilty  room 
Pursues  the  sisters  who  appear  with  wings 
To  cut  the  air ;  and  so  they  did.     One  sings 
In  woods;  the  other  near  the  house  remains 
And  on  her  breast  yet  bears  her  murder's  stains. 


22  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

20  He,  swift  with  grief  and  fury,  in  that  space 

His  person  changed.     Long  tufts  of  feathers  grace 
His  shining  crown;  his  sword  a  bill  became; 
His  face  all  armed;  whom  we  a  lapwing  name. 


GEORGE  ALSOP. 
(1638-16—.) 

George  Alsop  emigrated  from  England  to  Mary 
land  in  1658  and  remained  there  for  five  years.  He 
wrote  an  interesting  account  of  his  experiences  in 
America,  which  was  published  in  1666  under  the  title, 
A  Character  of  the  Province  of  Mary-Land.  The  se 
lection  given  is  from  this  work  which,  however,  is, 
for  the  most  part,  in  prose.  Of  Alsop's  life  after  his 
return  to  England  scarcely  anything  is  known. 

UPON  A  PURPLE  CAP.* 

Hail  from  the  dead,  or  from  Eternity, 

Thou  Velvet  Religue  of  Antiquity; 

Thou  which  appear'st  here  in  thy  purple  hue, 

Tell's  how  the  dead  within  their  tombs  do  do ; 
5  How  those  ghosts  fare  within  each  marble  cell, 

Where  amongst  them  for  ages  thou  didst  dwell. 

What  brain  didst  cover  there  ?    Tell  us  that  we 

Upon  our  knees  vail  hats  to  honor  thee ; 

And  if  no  honor's  due,  tell  us  whose  pate 
10  Thou  basely  coveredst,  and  we'll  jointly  hate ! 

Let's  know  his  name,  that  we  may  show  neglect ; 

If  otherwise,  we'll  kiss  thee  with  respect. 

Say,  didst  thou  cover  Noll's  *  old  brazen  head, 

Which  on  the  top  of  Westminster  *  high  lead 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  23 

15  Stands  on  a  pole,  erected  to  the  sky, 

As  a  grand  trophy  to  his  memory? 

From  his  perfidious  skull  didst  thou  fall  down 

In  a  disdain  to  honor  such  a  crown 

With  three-pile  velvet?*     Tell  me,  hadst  thou  thy 

fall 
20  From  the  high  top  of  that  Cathedral? 


BACON'S  EPITAPH. 
(1676.) 

The  first  literary  result  of  Bacon's  Rebellion  was 
the  Burwell  Papers,  so  named  because  of  the  family 
in  whose  possession  the  manuscript  so  long  remained. 
Although  written  in  1676,  it  was  not  widely  known 
until  1814,  when  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society 
published  it.  Opening  in  the  midst  of  a  description 
of  an  Indian  fight  (for  the  first  pages  are  lost),  the 
story  tells  of  the  savage  atrocities,  the  plea  to  Bacon 
to  lead  the  people,  the  war  and  his  brave  career  in 
it,  his  sad  and  mysterious  death,  the  deceitful  endeav 
ors  of  his  worthless  successor,  Ingram,  and,  through 
it  all,  the  admiration  and  love  for  the  heroic  leader. 
The  writer  is  not  known.  The  body  of  the  book  is  in 
prose,  but  near  the  close  is  found  the  following  selec 
tion: 

Death,  why  so  cruel  ?    What !    No  other  way 
To  manifest  thy  spleen,*  but  thus  to  slay 
Our  hopes  of  safety,  liberty,  our  all, 
Which,  through  thy  tyranny,  with  him  must  fall 
5  To  its  late  chaos? 


24  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Now  we  must  complain. 

Since  thou,  in  him,  hast  more  than  thousand  slain, 
Whose  lives  and  safeties  did  so  much  depend 
On  him  their  life,  with  him  their  lives  must  end. 

10  Who  now  must  heal  those  wounds,  or  stop  that 

blood 

The  Heathen  made,  and  drew  into  a  flood  ? 
Who  is't  must  plead  our  cause?     Nor  trump  nor 

drum 

Nor  Deputations ;  these,  alas !  are  dumb 
And  cannot  speak.     Our  Arms   (though  ne'er  so 
strong) 

15  Will  want  the  aid  of  his  commanding  tongue 

Which  conquer'd  more  than  Caesar.     He  o'erthrew 
Only  the  outward  frame;  this  could  subdue 
The  rugged  works  of  nature.     Souls  replete 
With  dull  chill  cold,  he'd  animate  with  heat 

20  Drawn  forth  of  reason's  limbic.     In  a  word, 
Mars*  and  Minerva*  both  in  him  concurred 
For  art,  for  arms,  whose  pen  and  sword  alike, 
As  Cato's*  did,  may  admiration  strike 
Into  his  foes ;  while  they  confess  withal 

25  It  was  their  guilt  styl'd  him  a  criminal. 
Only  this  difference  does  from  truth  proceed ; 
They  in  the  guilt,  he  in  the  name  must  bleed. 
While  none  shall  dare  his  obsequies  to  sing 
In  deserv'd  measures;  until  time  shall  bring 

30  Truth  crown'd  with  freedom,  and  from  danger  free 
To  sound  his  praises  to  posterity. 

Here  let  him  rest ;  while  we  this  truth  report 
He's  gone  from  hence  unto  a  higher  Court 
To  plead  his  cause,  where  he  by  this  doth  know 

35  Whether  to  Cresar  he  was  friend  or  foe.* 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  25 


EBENEZER  COOK. 

In  1708  there  was  published  in  London  a  satirical 
poem,  entitled  The  Sot-Weed  Factor.  It  had  the  sig 
nature  "Eben.  Cook,  Gent. ;"  but  doubtless  this  is  only 
a  pen  name.  The  book  tells  the  adventures  of  an 
English  merchant  in  Virginia,  especially  with  those 
persons  who  dealt  in  tobacco,  or  sot-weed,  as  it  was 
then  sometimes  called.  We  may  feel  sure  that  the 
poem  was  not  very  popular  in  America. 

THE  SOT-WEED  FACTORS. 

With  neither  stocking,  hat,  nor  shoe, 
These  sot-weed  planters  crowd  the  shore, 
In  hue  as  tawny  as  a  Moor. 
Figures  so  strange,  no  good  designed 
5  To  be  a  part  of  human  kind ; 
But  wanton  nature,  void  of  rest, 
Moulded  the  brittle  clay  in  jest. 

HE  MEETS  A  QUAKER. 

I  met  a  Quaker,  "Yea"  and  "Nay" ; 

A  pious,  conscientious  rogue,* 
10  As  e'er  wore  bonnet  or  a  brogue, 

Who  neither  swore*  nor  kept  his  word 

But  cheated  in  the  fear  of  God; 

And  when  his  debts  he  would  not  pay, 

By  light  within*  he  ran  away. 
15  With  this  sly  zealot  soon  I  struck 

A  bargain  for  my  English  truck, 

Agreeing  for  ten  thousand  weight* 

Of  Sot- weed  good  and  fit  for  freight, 


26  THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Broad  Oronooko*  bright  and  sound, 
20  The  growth  and  product  of  his  ground ; 

In  cask  that  should  contain  complete 

Five  hundred  of  tobacco  neat. 

The  contract  thus  betwixt  us  made, 

Not  well  acquainted  with  the  trade, 
25  My  goods  I  trusted  to  the  cheat, 

Whose  crop  was  then  aboard  the  fleet ; 

And,  going  to  receive  my  own, 

I  found  the  bird  was  newly  flown. 


HE  GOES  TO  COURT. 

We  sat,  like  others,  on  the  ground, 
30  Carousing  punch  in  open  air, 
Till  crier  did  the  court  declare: 


And  straight  the  lawyers  broke  the  peace. 

Wrangling  for  plaintiff  and  defendant. 

I  thought  they  ne'er  would  make  an  end  on't. 

35  With  nonsense,  stuff,  and  false  quotations, 
With  brazen  lies  and  allegations. 
And  in  the  splitting  of  the  cause, 
They  used  such  motions  with  their  paws, 
As  showed  their  zeal  was  strongly  bent 

40  In  blows  to  end  the  argument. 


II. 
THE  REVOLUTIONARY  PERIOD. 

(1740-1815.) 


GENERAL  SURVEY. 

We  now  enter  a  period  of  war  and  not  of  poetry. 
The  greatest  poetry  of  this  time  was  written  in  blood 
on  the  snowy  fields  of  Valley  Forge.  It  was  a  time 
when  the  thoughts  of  all  Americans  were  turned 
toward  the  study  of  the  common  rights  of  man,  the 
institutions  of  government,  and  the  theory  of  law  in 
general.  Sentiment  vented  itself  in  oratory  and  finally 
in  action,  and  only  occasionally  did  some  quieter  soul 
express  itself  in  verse.  In  the  South  especially  this 
was  true.  The  courthouse  was  the  center  of  interest, 
and  there  eloquence  was  demanded.  Moreover,  the 
opportunities  for  publishing  were  very  meager.  We 
have  seen  that  nearly  all  the  poetry  given  so  far  was 
printed  in  England;  and  this  custom  continued  far 
into  the  Revolutionary  period.  Governor  Berkeley 
had  made  his  memorable  statement:  "I  thank  God 
there  are  no  free  schools  nor  printing,  and  I  hope  we 
shall  not  have  them  these  hundred  years."  From 
1729  until  near  the  Revolution  there  was  but  one 
printing  press  in  Virginia,  and  that  one  was  under 
official  control;  while  the  first  newspaper,  The  Vir 
ginia  Gazette,  was  not  published  until  1736.  This, 
then,  was  the  soil  from  which  poetry  must  spring. 
Yet  we  find  not  a  few  striking  pieces  of  verse. 


VIRGINIA  HEARTS  OF  OAK. 

Among  the  few  Revolutionary  songs  written  in  the 
South  one  of  the  most  famous  was  the  Carolina  bal 
lad,  Battle  of  King's  Mountain  (1781),  beginning 
with  the  lines : 

'Twas  on  a  pleasant  mountain 

The  Tory  heathen  lay, 
With  a  doughty  major  at  their  head, 

One  Ferguson,  they  say. 
Cornwallis  had  detached  him, 

A  thieving  for  to  go, 
And  catch  the  Carolina  men, 

Or  bring  the  rebels  low. 

Another  well-known  one  was  Virginia  Hearts  of 
Oak,  portions  of  which  are  given  here.  Of  course 
other  poems  were  known,  especially  some  by  Rednap 
Howell,  a  North  Carolina  schoolmaster,  the  patriot 
ism  of  which  was  far  better  than  the  technique.  A 
Virginia  woman  wrote  a  poem  about  Tea — "perni 
cious,  baleful  tea:" 

"With  all  Pandora's  ills  possessed; 

Hyson,  no  more  beguiled  by  thee, 
My  noble  sons  shall  be  oppressed." 

However,  Virginia  Hearts  of  Oak  was  doubtless 
the  most  popular : 

Sure  never  was  picture  drawn  more  to  the  life, 
Or  affectionate  husband  more  fond  of  his  wife, 
Than  America  copies  and  loves  Britain's  sons,* 
Who,  conscious  of  freedom,  are  bold  as  great  guns. 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  31 

5  Hearts  of  oak  are  we  still, 
For  we're  sons  of  those  men 
Who  always  are  ready- 
Steady,  boys,  steady- 
To  fight  for  their  freedom  again  and  again. 

10  To  King  George,   as  true  subjects,  we  loyal  bow 

down, 

But  hope  we  may  call  Magna  Charta*  our  own : 
Let  the  rest  of  the  world  slavish  worship  decree, 
Great  Britain  has  ordered  her  sons  to  be  Free! 
Hearts  of  oak,  etc. 

15  With  Loyalty,  Liberty  let  us  entwine, 

Our  blood  shall  for  both  flow  as  free  as  our  wine ; 
Let  us  set  an  example  what  all  men  should  be, 
And  a  toast  give  the  world — Here's  to  those  who'd 
be  Free! 

Hearts  of  oak,  etc. 


CHARLES  HENRY  WHARTON. 
(1748-    ?    .) 

At  a  time  when  Washington  was  undergoing  some 
of  the  severest  trials  of  his  life,  fighting  not  only  the 
enemy  from  abroad  but  also  the  fear  and  jealousy  of 
many  of  his  own  countrymen,  there  appeared  a  rather 
remarkable  poem  in  his  defense,  A  Poetical  Epistle  to 
George  Washington  (1778).  It  was  a  striking  proof 
of  the  unpopularity  in  England  of  the  war  that,  al 
though  the  proceeds  from  this  book  were  to  go  to 


32  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

American  prisoners,  fifteen  thousand  copies  were  sold 
in  London  alone  in  three  weeks.  Wharton  was  a 
Catholic  priest,  born  in  Maryland,  but  serving  his 
Church  in  England  during  the  Revolution. 

THE  EULOGY  OF  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

Great  without  pomp,  without  ambition  brave, 
Proud  not  to  conquer  fellow-men,  but  save ; 
Friend  to  the  wretched,  foe  to  none  but  those 
Who  plan  their  greatness  on  their  brethren  s  woes; 

5  Awed  by  no  titles,  faithless  to  no  trust, 
Free  without  faction,  obstinately  just; 
Too  rough  for  flattery,  dreading  e'en  as  death 
The  baneful  influence  of  corruption  s  breatn ; 
Warmed  by  Religion's  sacred  genuine  ray 

"  That  points  to  future  bliss  the  unerring  way: 

Such  be  my  country !— what  her  sons  should  be 
O,  may  they  learn,  great  Washington,  from  thee! 

HUGH  HENRY  BRACKENRIDGE. 
(1748-1816.) 

Huo-h  Henry  Brackenridge,  preacher,  teacher,  dram 
atist,  soldier,  lawyer,  politician,  judge,  poet,  and 
humorist,  was  born  in  Scotland,  but  came  to  America 
earlv  in  his  boyhood.  Amidst  cruel  hardships  he 
secured  enough  education  to  become  teacher  of  a 
country  school  in  Maryland,  and  after  pursuing  this 
work  for  several  years  entered  Princeton  University, 
where  he  also  taught  for  a  while.  He  returned  to 
Maryland  and  became  both  preacher  and  teacher. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  33 

While  there  he  wrote  for  his  pupils  his  first  drama, 
The  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill  (1776).  In  the  spring  of 
1777  he  became  a  chaplain  in  the  Continental  army, 
and  during  that  same  year  wrote  his  second  drama, 
The  Death  of  General  Montgomery.  After  the  war 
he  studied  law  and  became  judge  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  Pennsylvania.  In  1796  he  published  his 
popular  Humorous  work,  Captain  Farrago  and  Teague 
O'Regan,  His  Servant.  His  dramatic  work  has  a  sur 
prisingly  clear  and  lofty  style. 

WARREN'S*  LAST  WORDS. 

By  the  last  parting  breath 

And  blood  of  this  your  fellow-soldier  slain, 

Be  now  adjured  never  to  yield  the  right — 

The  grand  deposit  of  all-giving  Heaven — 

5  To  man's  free  nature,  that  he  rules  himself ! 

Weep  not  for  him  who  first  espoused  the  cause, 
And  risking  life,  hath  met  the  enemy 
In  fatal  opposition — but  rejoice ! 
For  now  I  go  to  mingle  with  the  dead, — 
10  Great  Brutus,*  Hampden,*  Sidney,*  and  the  rest, 
Of  old  or  modern  memory,  who  lived 
A  mound  to  tyrants,  and  strong  hedge  to  kings, 
Bounding  the  inundation  of  their  rage 
Against  the  happiness  and  peace  of  Man. 

15  I  see  three  heroes  where  they  walk  serene, 
By  crystal  currents,  on  the  vale  of  Heaven, 
High  in  full  converse  of  immortal  acts 
Achieved  for  truth  and  innocence  on  earth. 

Illustrious  group !     They  beckon  me  along, 
20  To  ray  my  visage  with  immortal  light, 

3 


34  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

And  bind  the  amaranth*  around  my  brow. 
I  come,  I  come,  ye  firstborn  of  true  fame. 
Fight  on,  my  countrymen,  be  free,  be  free ! 

FROM  "THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL  MONTGOMERY."' 

Sad  thought  of  cruelty  and  outrage  dire ! 
25  Not  to  be  paralleled  'mongst  human  kind, 

Save  in  the  tales  of  flesh-devouring  men, 

The  one-eyed  Cyclops*  and  fierce  Cannibal. 

For  what  we  hear  of  Saracen*  or  Turk, 

Mogol*  or  Tartar*  of  Siberia, 
30  Is  far  behind  the  deed  of  infamy 

And  horror  mixed  which  Britons  meditate. 

And  at  the  Last  Day,  when  the  Pit  receives 
Her  gloomy  brood,  and  seen  among  the  rest, 
Some  spirit  distinguished  by  ampler  swell 
35  Of  malice,  envy,  and  soul-griping  hate, 
Pointing  to  him,  the  foul  and  ugly  ghosts 
Of  hell  shall  say— "That  was  an  Englishman."* 


ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER. 
(1752-1828.) 

One  of  the  most  popular  bits  of  early  Southern 
verse  was  Resignation:  or,  Days  of  My  Youth.  Its 
author,  St.  George  Tucker,  was  born  in  Bermuda, 
but  early  removed  to  Virginia.  He  became  a  brilliant 
jurist  and  was  during  several  years  Professor  of  Law 
at  William  and  Mary  College.  Among  his  works  are 
Fugitive  Stanzas,  Probationary  Odes  of  Jonathan  Pin 
dar,  Esq.,  Commentary  on  the  Constitution,  Disserta- 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  35 

tion  on  Slavery,  and  unpublished  dramas.     His  poems 
possess  much  gracefulness  and  purity  of  sentiment. 

DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH. 

Days  of  my  youth, 

Ye  have  glided  away; 
Hairs  of  my  youth, 

Ye  are  frosted  and  gray ; 
5  Eyes  of  my  youth, 

^  Your  keen  sight  is  no  more ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth, 
^  Ye  are  furrowed  all  o'er; 
Strength  of  my  youth, 

All  your  vigor  is  gone; 
Thoughts  of  my  youth, 
Your  gay  visions  are  flown. 

Days  of  my  youth, 

I  wish  not  your  recall; 
5  Hairs  of  my  youth, 

^  I'm  content  ye  should  fall  ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth, 
^  You  much  evil  have  seen  ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth, 

Bathed  in  tears  have  you  been ; 
Thoughts  of  my  youth, 
^  You  have  led  me  astray; 
Strength  of  my  youth, 
Why  lament  your  decay? 

25  Days  of  my  age, 

Ye  will  shortly  be  past ; 
Pains  of  my  age, 

Yet  a  while  ye  can  last; 
Joys  of  my  age, 
30       In  true  wisdom  delight; 


36  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Eyes  of  my  age, 

Be  religion  your  light; 
Thoughts  of  my  age, 

Dread  ye  not  the  cold  sod ; 
35  Hopes  of  my  age, 

Be  ye  fixed  on  your  God. 


WILLIAM  M  UN  FORD. 
(1775-1825.) 

During  the  last  years  of  the  Revolutionary  period 
William  Munford,  a  Virginian,  worked  steadily  upon 
a  blank  verse  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad*  and  fin 
ished  it  just  before  his  death.  However,  it  did  not 
appear  in  book  form  until  1846.  Munford  was  a 
graduate  of  William  and  Mary,  had  been  a  State 
Senator  for  several  years,  and  at  the  time  of  his  death 
was  clerk  of  the  House  of  Delegates.  His  volume  of 
original  poems  (1798)  was  considered  but  fair  in 
quality  in  his  own  day,  and  they  are  not  at  all  known 
now;  but  his  translation  of  the  Iliad  is  worthy  of 
wider  fame. 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  HECTOR.* 

With  loud,  tremendous  shout, 
He  called  his  Trojan  heroes.     Sons  of  Troy,* 
Equestrian  warriors,  to  the  onset  come ! 
Break  now  the  Grecian  wall,  and  on  their  ships 
B  Throw  flaming  brands  like  thunderbolts  of  Jove 
He  said,  inspiring  fury ;  they  his  call 
With   transport  heard  throughout  that  numeroi 
host! 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  37 

Thronging  together,  to  the  wall  they  ran, 
Armed  with  keen  spears,  before  them  held  erect, 

10  And  mounting  scaling  ladders.     Hector  seized 
And  bore  a  stone  which  stood  before  the  gates, 
Heavy  and  craggy,  pointed  sharp  at  top, 
Which  not  two  men,  though  stoutest  of  the  race 
Earth  now  sustains,  could  without  toil  have  moved 

15  By  levers  from  the  ground  and  heaved  its  mass 
Into  a  wagon ;  yet  did  singly  he 
Toss  it  with  ease,  so  light  Saturnian  Jove* 
Made  it  to  him !     For,  as  a  shepherd  brings 
In  one  hand  joyfully  a  ram's  rich  fleece, 

20  And  feels  but  small  the  weight,  so  Hector  bore 
That  rock  enormous  toward  the  lofty  gates, 
Strong-framed,  with  double  valves,  of  panels  thick, 
Compact  and  firm ;  two  iron  bars  within 
Transverse  secured  them,  fastened  by  a  bolt. 

25  He  near  them  took  his  stand,  with  legs  astride, 
That -not  in  vain  that  weapon  should  be  thrown; 
Then  smote  them  in  the  midst  with  all  his  strength, 
And  broke  both  hinges.     Thundering  on,  the  stone, 
With  force  o'erwhelming,  fell  within  the  wall. 

30  Loud  rang  the  yielding  gates,  asunder  riven, 
Nor  could  the  bars  retain  them ;  flew  the  planks 
In  splintered  fragments,  scattered  every  way. 
Into  the  pass  illustrious  Hector  leaped"; 
Gloomy  as  night,  with  aspect  stern  and  dread! 

35  Arrayed  in  brazen  panoply,  he  shone 
Terrific;  in  his  hands  two  javelins  keen! 
And  surely  no  one  could  have  checked  him  then, 
Except   the   gods,   when   through   those  gates   he 

sprang ! 
His  eyes,  tremendous,  flashed  with  living  fire; 

40  And,  turning  to  his  host,  he  called  them  all 
To  pass  the  barrier. 


3$  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

JOHN  SHAW. 

(1778-1809.) 

In  1810  there  appeared  a  little  volume  of  verse, 
entitled  simply  Poems,  and  bearing  the  name  Dr.  John 
Shaw.  The  author  had  died  a  few  months  before. 
Born  at  Annapolis,  Maryland,  he  studied  at  St.  John's 
College  in  that  city,  and  took  courses  in  medicine  at 
the  University  of  Pennsylvania  and  at  the  University 
of  Edinburgh.  He  went  to  Baltimore  in  1805,  and 
there  was  highly  successful  in  his  profession.  His 
verse,  while  not  approaching  greatness,  has  much 
daintiness. 

SONG. 

Who  has  robbed  the  ocean  cave, 

To  tinge  thy  lips  with  coral  hue? 
Who  from  India's  distant  wave 

For  thee  those  pearly  treasures  drew? 
5  Who  from  yonder  orient  sky 

Stole  the  morning  of  thine  eye  ? 

Thousand  charms  thy  form  to  deck, 

From  sea,  and  earth,  and  air  are  torn ; 
Roses  bloom  upon  thy  cheek, 
10       On  thy  breath  their  fragrance  borne. 
Guard  thy  bosom  from  the  day, 
Lest  thy  snows  should  melt  away.* 

But  one  charm  remains  behind, 

Which  mute  earth  can  ne'er  impart; 
15  Nor  in  ocean  wilt  thou  find, 

Nor  in  the  circling  air,  a  heart. 
Fairest,  wouldst  thou  perfect  be, 
Take,  O  take  that  heart  from  me! 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  39 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 
(1779-1843.) 

Coleridge  once  said  of  Washington  Allston :  "He  is 
surpassed  by  no  man  of  his  age  in  artistic  and  poetic 
genius."  Allston  was  born  at  Georgetown,  South 
Carolina,  was  educated  at  Harvard,  and  studied  paint 
ing  in  England,  France,  and  Italy.  He  became  widely 
known  as  an  artist,  among  his  best  productions  being 
portraits  of  Benjamin  West  and  Coleridge,  and  the 
pictures,  "The  Angel  Uriel  in  the  Sun"  and  "Belshaz- 
zar's  Feast."  He  is  best  known  to-day  by  his  Lectures 
on  Art,  but  some  of  his  poems  are  noticeable  for  their 
vigorous  expression. 

IMMORTALITY. 

To  think  for  aye ;  to  breathe  immortal  breath ; 
And  know  nor  hope  nor  fear  of  ending  death ; 
To  see  the  myriad  worlds  that  round  us  roll 
Wax  old  and  perish,  while  the  steadfast  soul 
5  Stands  fresh  and  moveless  in  her  sphere  of  thought ; 
O  God,  omnipotent !     Who  in  me  wrought, 
This  conscious  world,  whose  ever-growing  orb. 
When  the  dead  Past  shall  all  in  time  absorb, 
Will  be  but  as  begun — O,  of  thine  own, 
10  Give  of  the  holy  light  that  veils  thy  throne,* 
That  darkness  be  not  mine,  to  take  my  place, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  light,  a  blot  in  space ! 
So  may  this  wondrous  Life,  from  sin  made  free, 
Reflect  thy  love  for  aye,  and  to  thy  glory  be. 


40  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


ON  THE  LATE  S.  T.  COLERIDGE.* 

15  And    thou    art    gone,    most    loved,    most    honored 

friend ! 

No,  nevermore  thy  gentle  voice*  shall  blend 
With  air  of  Earth  its  pure  ideal  tones, 
Binding  in  one,  as  with  harmonious  zones, 
The  heart  and  intellect.     And  I  no  more 

20  Shall  with  thee  gaze  on  that  unfathomed  deep, 
The  Human  Soul — as  when,  pushed  off  the  shore, 
Thy    mystic    bark    would    through    the    darkness 

sweep, 

Itself  the  while  so  bright!     For  oft  we  seemed 
As  on  some  starless  sea — all  dark  above, 

25  All  dark  below — yet,  onward  as  we  drove, 

To  plough  up  light  that  ever  round  us  streamed. 
But  he  who  mourns  is  not  as  one  bereft 
Of  all  he  loved :  thy  living  Truths  are  left. 


FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY. 
(1779-1843.) 

It  sometimes  happens  that  one  song  gives  a  writer 
lasting  fame.  Among  several  examples  may  be  men 
tioned  Home,  Sweet  Home,  The  Old  Oaken  Bucket, 
Dixie,  Hail  Columbia,  and  The  Star-Spangled  Ban 
ner.  The  author  of  the  last-named  poem  was  born  in 
Frederick  County,  Maryland,  was  educated  at  St. 
John's  College,  Annapolis,  became  a  lawyer,  and  was 
for  some  time  Attorney  for  the  District  of  Columbia. 
During  the  second  war  with  Great  Britain  he  was 
sent  on  board  a  British  ship  to  arrange  an  exchange 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  4! 


of  prisoners,  and,  the  attack  on  Fort  McHenry  having 
begun,  he  was  detained  on  board  until  the  next  morn 
ing.  When,  in  the  early  morning  light,  he  saw  the 
American  flag  still  waving  above  the  fort,  he  seized 
an  old  envelope  and  wrote  upon  its  back  these  stirring 
words.  Other  poems  he  wrote  in  after  life;  but  only 
this  one  is  widely  known.  But  he  who  creates  one 
lyric  that  a  nation  sings  into  its  very  soul  has  done 
indeed  a  most  glorious  life  work. 

THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 

O  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last 

gleaming— 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the 

clouds  of  the  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly 

streaming  ? 
'  And  the  rockets'  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in 

air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was 

still  there ; 

O !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  that  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the 

deep, 

10       Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  re 
poses, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering 

steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the   morning's  first 
beam, 

In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream; 


42  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

15  Tis  the  star-spangled  banner ;  O  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 
20       Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footstep's 

pollution. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
From   the  terror  of  flight,   or  the   gloom   of  the 

grave ; 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  jn  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home   of  the 

brave. 

25  O !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desola 
tion! 
Blessed  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  Heav'n- 

rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved 

us  a  nation! 

Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 
30  And  this  be  our  motto — "In  God  is  our  trust !" 
And    the    star-spangled   banner    in    triumph    shall 

wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  Home  of  the 
brave. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  43 

WILLIAM  MAXWELL. 
(1784-1857.) 

William  Maxwell,  a  lawyer,  teacher,  editor,  and 
poet,  was  born  at  Norfolk,  Virginia,  was  educated 
at  Yale,  became  a  member  of  the  Virginia  Legisla 
ture,  and  from  1838  to  1844  was  President  of  Hamp- 
den-Sidney  College.  His  poems,  a  volume  of  which 
appeared  in  1810,  have  daintiness,  but  little  depth — 
characteristics  of  a  great  portion  of  Southern  poetry. 

To  A  FAIR  LADY. 

Fairest,  mourn  not  for  thy  charms, 

Circled  by  no  lover's  arms, 

While  inferior  belles  you  see 

Pick  up  husbands  merrily. 
5  Sparrows,  when  they  choose  to  pair, 

Meet  their  matches  anywhere ; 

But  the  Phcenix,*  sadly  great, 

Cannot  find  an  equal  mate. 

Earth,  tho'  dark,  enjoys  the  honor 
10  Of  a  Moon  to  wait  upon  her; 

Venus,*  tho'  divinely  bright, 

Cannot  boast  a  satellite. 

To  ANNE. 

How  many  kisses  do  I  ask? 

Now  you  set  me  to  my  task. 
15  First,  sweet  Anne,  will  you  tell  me 

How  many  waves  are  in  the  sea? 

How  many  stars  are  in  the  sky? 

How  many  lovers  you  make  sigh? 

How  many  sands  are  on  the  shore  ? 
20  I  shall  want  just  one  kiss  more. 


44  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 


RICHARD  DABNEY. 
(1787-1825.) 

There  was  something  of  real  genius  in  Richard 
Dabney.  He  had  a  genuinely  poetic  temperament. 
Born  of  a  family  very  important  in  the  intellectual 
development  of  Virginia,  he  himself  became  a  teacher. 
In  the  burning  of  a  Richmond  theater  he  was  so  badly 
injured  that  the  brilliant  prospects  of  his  life  were 
practically  ruined,  and  he  became  a  slave  to  opium 
and  liquor,  and  spent  his  last  days  rather  equally  be 
tween  his  schoolhouse  and  the  tavern.  His  Poems 
Original  and  Translated  appeared  in  1812,  and  a  larger 
edition  was  printed  in  1815.  His  imitations  of  Eurip 
ides,  Sappho,  Seneca,  Petrarch,  and  other  classical 
writers  are  smooth  and  well  expressed. 


AN  EPIGRAM*  IMITATED  FROM  ARCHIAS.* 

O  wise  was  the  people  that  deeply  lamented^ 
The  hour  that  presented  their  children  to  light, 

And  gathering  around,  all  the  miseries  recounted, 
That  brood  o'er  life's  prospects  and  whelm  them 
in  night. 

5  And  wise  was  the  people  that  deeply  delighted, 

When  death  snatched  its  victim  from  life's  cheer 
less  day; 

For  then,  all  the  clouds,  life's  views  that  benighted, 
They   believed,    at   his   touch,    vanished   quickly 
away. 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  45 

Life,  faithless  and  treacherous,  is  forever  presenting 
10       To  our  view  flying  phantoms  we  never  can  gain ; 
Life,  cruel  and  tasteless,  is  forever  preventing 
All  our  joys,  and  involving  our  pleasures  in  pain. 

Death,    kind    and    consoling,    comes    calmly    and 

lightly, 

The  balm  of  all  sorrow,  the  cure  of  all  ill ; 
15  And  after  a  pang,  that  but  thrills  o'er  us  slightly, 
All  then  becomes  tranquil,  all  then  becomes  still. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

As  numerous  as  the  stars  of  heaven 
Are  the  fond  hopes  to  mortals  given ; 
But  two  illume,  with  brighter  ray, 
20  The  morn  and  eve  of  life's  short  day. 

Its  glowing  tints,  on  youth's  fresh  days, 
The  Lucifer*  of  life  displays, 
And  bids  its  opening  joys  declare 
Their  bloom  of  prime  shall  be  so  fair, 

25  That  all  its  minutes,  all  its  hours, 

Shall  breathe  of  pleasure's  sweetest  flowers. 
But  false  the  augury  of  that  star — 
The  Lord  of  passion  drives  his  car, 
Swift  up  the  middle  line  of  heaven, 

30  And  blasts  each  flower  that  hope  had  given. 
And  care  and  woe,  and  pain  and  strife, 
All  mingle  in  the  noon  of  life. 

Its  gentle  beams,  on  man's  last  days, 
The  Hesperus*  of  life  displays : 
35  When  all  of  passion's  midday  heat 
Within  the  breast  forgets  to  beat; 
When  calm  and  smooth  our  minutes  glide, 


46  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Along  life's  tranquillizing  tide  ; 
It  points  with  slow,  receding  light, 
49  To  the  sweet  rest  of  silent  night ; 

And  tells,  when  life's  vain  schemes  shall  end, 
Thus  will  its  closing  light  descend, 
And  as  the  eve  star  seeks  the  wave, 
Thus  gently  reach  the  quiet  grave. 


III. 

THE  PERIOD  OF  EXPANSION. 

(1815-1850.) 


GENERAL  SURVEY. 

In  1793  Eli  Whitney  invented  the  cotton  gin — 
doubtless  the  most  momentous  event  in  the  earlier 
history  of  the  South.  Strange  as  the  fact  may  seem 
to-day,  cotton  was  unknown  as  a  staple  crop  previous 
to  that  date,  and  the  raising  of  it  inclined  somewhat 
toward  our  modern  idea  of  "fancy  gardening."  But 
with  the  coming  of  this  invention  the  whole  economic 
and  political  system  of  the  South  was  revolutionized. 
Farmers  from  the  coast  rapidly  moved  westward,  car 
rying  their  slaves  with  them,  and  there  sprang  into 
existence  a  vast  interior  civilization.  Virginia  lost 
something  of  her  old-time  prestige;  creative  energy 
passed  to  no  small  extent  into  the  lower  South;  and 
political  domination  transferred  itself  largely  to  the 
Cotton  Belt.  By  1815  we  find  such  men  in  Congress 
as  Crawford  and  Troup,  of  Georgia,  and  Henry  Clay, 
of  Kentucky.  The  South  no  longer  consisted  merely 
of  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas.  Literature  goes  hand 
in  hand  with  History.  We  now  find  the  interior  con 
tributing  to  poetry;  while  not  a  few  new  characteris 
tics  and  not  a  little  new  energy  present  themselves. 
4  (49) 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 
(1789-1847.) 

Richard  Henry  Wilde  was  born  at  Dublin,  Ireland, 
and  came  to  America  when  he  was  eight  years  of  age. 
After  a  boyhood  of  heavy  toil  and  hardship,  he  became 
a  lawyer,  served  as  Attorney-General  of  Georgia,  was 
a  member  of  the  House  of  Representatives  of  that 
State,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  was  chosen  Con 
gressman.  Failing  of  reelection  in  1834,  he  went  to 
Italy,  became  intensely  interested  in  Italian  literature, 
found  and  rescued  the  only  reliable  portrait  of  Dante, 
and  wrote  his  large  work,  Conjectures  and  Researches 
Concerning  the  Love,  Madness,  and  Imprisonment  of 
Tasso.  This  and  his  poems  are  his  most  widely  known 
writings. 

STANZAS. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose, 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground — to  die! 
5  Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me  !* 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 
10       That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray : 
Its  hold  is  frail — its  date  is  brief, 
Restless — and  soon  to  pass  away! 

(50) 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  51 

Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
15  The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 

Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 
20       All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand  ; 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 
On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea — 
But  none,  alas !  shall  mourn  for  me ! 


To  THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 

25  Winged  mimic  of  the  woods !  thou  motley  fool ! 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe? 
Thine  ever-ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe. 
Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick*  of  thy  tribe, 
80  Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school, 
To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe. 
Arch-mocker  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule  !* 

For  such  thou  art  by  day — but  all  night  long 
Thou  pourest  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 
35       As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 
Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques*  complain. 

Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 
And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  AMERICA.* 

Farewell,  my  more  than  fatherland  !* 

Home  of  my  heart  and  friends,  adieu ! 
Lingering  beside  some  foreign  strand, 


52  THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


How  oft  shall  I  remember  you ! 

How  often,  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
Send  back  a  sigh  to  those  I  leave, 
45       The  loving  and  beloved  few, 

Who  grieve  for  me — for  whom  I  grieve ! 

We  part ! — no  matter  how  we  part, 

There  are  some  thoughts  we  utter  not, 

Deep  treasured  in  our  inmost  heart, 

50       Never  revealed,  and  ne'er  forgot ! 

Why  murmur  at  the  common  lot? 

We  part ! — I  speak  not  of  the  pain — 
But  when  shall  I  each  lovely  spot 

And  each  loved  face  behold  again? 

55  It  must  be  months,  it  may  be  years,* 

It  may — but  no  ! — I  will  not  fill 
Fond  hearts  with  gloom,  fond  eyes  with  tears, 
"Curious  to  shape  uncertain  ill." 

Though  humble — few  and  far — yet,  still 
60  Those  hearts  and  eyes  are  ever  dear ; 
Theirs  is  the  love  no  time  can  chill, 
The  truth  no  chance  or  change  can  sear ! 

All  I  have  seen,  and  all  I  see, 

Only  endears  them  more  and  more ; 
65  Friends  cool,  hopes  fade,  and  hours  flee, 
Affection  lives  when  all  is  o'er ! 
Farewell,  my  more  than  native  shore ! 
I  do  not  seek  or  hope  to  find, 

Roam  where  I  will,  what  I  deplore 
70  To  leave  with  them  and  thee  behind ! 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  53 

MIRABEAU  BONAPARTE  LAMAR. 
(1798-1859.) 

Born  and  reared  at  Louisville,  Georgia,  Mirabeau 
Lamar  was  for  some  years  engaged  in  business  in 
that  town.  In  1835  he  removed  to  Te,xas,  served  in 
the  Mexican  War,  became  attorney-general,  secretary 
of  war,  vice  president,  and  president  of  the  Republic 
of  Texas,  and  was  appointed  United  States  minister  to 
Argentine  Republic  in  1857  and  minister  to  Nicaragua 
and  Costa  Rica  in  1858.  In  a  literary  way  he  should 
be  remembered  for  a  few  lyrics,  especially  those  deal 
ing  with  fair  women. 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  MENDOZA.* 

O  lend  to  me,  sweet  nightingale, 

Your  music  by  the  fountains ! 
And  lend  to  me  your  cadences, 

O  river  of  the  mountains ! 
5  That  I  may  sing  my  gay  brunette, 

A  diamond  spark  in  coral  set, 
Gem  for  a  prince's  coronet — 

The  daughter  of  Mendoza. 

How  brilliant  is  the  morning  star! 
10       The  evening  star  how  tender ! 
The  light  of  both  is  in  her  eye, 

Their  softness  and  their  splendor. 
But  for  the  lash  that  shades  their  light, 
They  are  too  dazzling  for  the  sight; 
15  And  when  she  shuts  them,  all  is  night — 
The  daughter  of  Mendoza. 


54  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

O!  ever  bright  and  beauteous  one, 

Bewildering  and  beguiling, 
The  lute  is  in  thy  silvery  tones, 
20       The  rainbow  in  thy  smiling. 
And  thine  is,  too,  o'er  hill  and  dell, 

The  bounding  of  the  young  gazelle. 
The  arrow's  flight  and  ocean's  swell — 

Sweet  daughter  of  Mendoza ! 

25  What  though,  perchance,  we  meet  no  more? 

What  though  too  soon  we  sever  ? 
Thy  form  will  float  like  emerald  light 

Before  my  vision  ever. 
For  who  can  see  and  then  forget 
30       The  glories  of  my  gay  brunette? 
Thou  art  too  bright  a  star  to  set — 
Sweet  daughter  of  Mendoza ! 


EDWARD   COATE  PINKNEY. 
(1802-1828.) 

A  brief,  unhappy  life  was  that  of  Pinkney.  Born 
in  London,  where  his  father  was  stationed  as  minister 
to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  he  spent  the  first  eight 
years  of  his  life  in  England,  then  came  to  America 
and  entered  St.  Mary's  College,  Baltimore,  became  a 
midshipman  in  the  United  States  navy,  began  the 
study  of  law  in  1822,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1824, 
and  became  professor  of  belles-lettres  in  the  Univer 
sity  of  Maryland  in  1826.  He  was  then  considered 
one  of  the  "five  greatest  poets  of  the  country;"  but, 
as  poets  of  rank  were  somewhat  scarce  at  that  time, 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  55 

this  was  not  necessarily  a  compliment.  However,  he 
did  possess  something  of  the  fervor  and  finish  of  true 
genius.  His  one  volume,  Poems,  appeared  in  1825. 

A  HEALTH.* 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon; 
5  To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair  that,  like  the  air, 

'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 
10      Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
15  As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 
Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 
20       The  freshness  of  young  flowers ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns — 

The  idol  of  past  years  ! 

25  Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 
A  sound  must  long  remain; 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 
30       So  very  much  endears. 

When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 
Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 


I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
35  A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex 
The  seeming  paragon — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry. 
40      And  weariness  a  name. 


VOTIVE  SONG. 

I  burn  no  incense,  hang  no  wreath, 

On  this  thine  early  tomb! 
Such  cannot  cheer  the  place  of  death, 

But  only  mock  its  gloom. 
45  Here  odorous  smoke  and  breathing  flower 

No  grateful  influence  shed ; 
They  lose  their  perfume  and  their  power, 

When  offered  to  the  dead. 


And  if,  as  is  the  Afghaun's*  creed, 
B0       The  spirit  may  return, 
A  disembodied  sense,  to  feed 

On  fragrance  near  its  urn — 
It  is  enough  that  she,  whom  thou 

Didst  love  in  living  years, 
65  Sits  desolate  beside  it  now, 
And  fall  these  heavy  tears. 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  57 


A  SERENADE.* 

Look  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love, 

nd  shame  them  with  thine  eyes,.} 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 
60       There  hang  more  destinies. 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 

Of  blending  shades  and  light! 
Then,  lady,  up — look  out,  and  be 
A  sister  to  the  night! 

65  Sleep  not!  thine  image  wakes  for  aye 

Within  my  watching  breast : 
Sleep  not!  from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly 

Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest. 
Nay,  lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 
70       And  make  this  darkness  gay. 

With  looks  whose  brightness  well  might  make 
Of  darker  nights  a  day. 


GEORGE  DEN  ISO  N  PRENTICE, 
(1802-1870.) 

George  D.  Prentice  was  born  at  Boston,  Massachu 
setts,  was  educated  at  Brown  University,  and  came 
to  the  South  in  1830.  He  founded  the  Louisville 
Journal  (afterwards  the  Courier- Journal)  and  be 
came  a  leader  in  Southern  political  and  literary  affairs. 
His  witty  Prentidana  and  his  sympathetic  Life  of  Hen 
ry  Clay  were  once  very  popular  books,  and  still  have 
readers ;  but  his  poems,  which  are  a  little  too  declama- 


5«  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

tory  to  suit  modern  taste,  are  not  widely  known  to 
day.  They  were  not  collected  until  six  years  after  his 
death. 

LINES  TO  A  LADY.1 

Lady,  I've  gazed  on  thee, 
And  thou  art  now  a  vision  of  the  Past, 
A  spirit  star,  whose  holy  light  is  cast 

On  memory's  voiceless  sea. 

That  star — it  lingers  there 
As  beautiful  as  'twere  a  dewy  flower, 
Soft  wafted  down  from  Eden's  glorious  bower, 

And  floating  in  mid-air. 

It  is  that  blessed  one 
1  The  day  star  of  my  destiny— the  first 
I  e'er  could  worship  as  the  Persian  erst 
Worshiped  his  own  loved  sun.* 

On  all  my  years  may  lie 
The  shadow  of  the  tempest,  their  dark  flow 
5  Be  wild  and  drear,  but  that  dear  one  will  glow 
Still  beautiful  on  high. 

THE  CLOSING  YEAR.* 

'Tis  midnight's  holy  hour— and  silence  now 
Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark !  on  the  winds 
1  The  bell's  deep  notes  are  swelling.     'Tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  year. 

No  funeral  train 

'These  selections  are  used  with  the  permission  of  the  pub 
lishers,  Robert  Clarke  Company,  Cincinnati. 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  59 

Is  sweeping  past:  yet  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest, 

25  Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud ;  the  air  is  stirred, 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh ;  and  on  yon  cloud, 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand- 
Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn 
form, 

30  And  Winter,  with  his  aged  locks — and  breathe 
In  mournful  cadences,  that  come  abroad 
Like  the  far  wind  harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 
A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  Year, 
Gone  from  the  earth  forever. 

35  Tis  a  time 

For  memory  and  for  tears.     Within  the  deep, 
Still  chambers  of  the  heart  a  specter  dim, 
Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time, 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 

40  And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  passed  away 
And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  specter  lifts 
The  coffin  lid  of  hope,  and  joy,  and  love, 

45  And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale, 

Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flow 
ers 
O'er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness. 

The  year 
Has  gone,  and,  with  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 

50  Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  on  each  heart.    In  its  swift  course 
It  waved  its  scepter  o'er  the  beautiful, 
And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 
Upon  the  strong  man,  and  the  haughty  form 

55  Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 

It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  thronged 


60  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

The  bright  and  joyous,  and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  stricken  ones  is  heard,  where  erst  the  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded.     It  passed  o'er 

60  The    battle    plain,    where    sword,    and    spear,    and 

shield 

Flashed  in  the  light  of  midday — and  the  strength 
Of  serried  hosts  is  shivered,  and  the  grass. 
Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 
The  crushed  and  moldering  skeleton.     It  came 

6r>  And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve ; 
Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 
It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Remorseless  Time ! — 
Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe  !*  what  power 

70  Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity?     On,  still  on 
He  presses  and  forever.     The  proud  bird. 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 

75  The  fury  of  the  Northern  hurricane 

And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag, — but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 

0  And  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 
His  rushing  pinion.     Revolutions  sweep 
O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow ;  cities  rise  and  sink, 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water ;  fiery  isles 

85  Spring,  blazing,  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  mysterious  caverns ;  mountains  rear 
To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackened  cliffs,  and  bow 
Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain ;  new  empires  rise, 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 

00  And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 
Startling  the  nations;  and  the  very  stars, 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  6 1 

Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 
Glitter  a  while  in  their  eternal  depths, 
And,  like  the  Pleiad,*  loveliest  of  their  train, 

95  Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away, 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void ;  yet  Time, 
Time,  the  tomb  builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all  pitiless,  and  pauses  not. 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 

100  To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 
Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 


WILLIAM   GILMORE  SIMMS. 
(1806-1870.) 

In  William  Gilmore  Simms  we  find  one  of  the  most 
versatile  of  Americans.  He  was  a  lawyer,  a  planter,  a 
statesman,  an  editor,  a  novelist,  a  dramatist,  a  critic,  a 
biographer,  an  historian,  and  a  poet.  He  was  born  at 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  was  early  left  an  orphan, 
and,  through  unceasing  endeavors,  fought  his  way  to 
success.  A  most  prolific  writer  himself,  he  became 
a  most  enthusiastic  patron  of  literature,  and  gathered 
around  himself  some  of  the  most  brilliant  men  of  his 
day.  No  attempt  could  be  made  here  to  give  a  com 
plete  list  of  his  works.  Ten  years  before  his  death 
they  numbered  eighteen  volumes  of  poetry  and  more 
than  sixty  volumes  of  history,  criticism,  and  fiction. 
Perhaps  he  is  known  best  to-day  by  two  of  his  novels, 
The  Yemassee  (1835)  and  The  Partisan  (1835);  but 
there  are  qualities  in  his  poems  that  are  worthy  of 
modern-day  attention  and  admiration. 


62  THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


THE  GRAPEVINE  SWING.* 

Lithe  and  long  as  the  serpent  train, 

Springing  and  clinging  from  tree  to  tree, 
Now  darting-  upward,  now  down  again, 

With  a  twist  and  a  twirl  that  are  strange  to  see 
5  Never  took  serpent  a  deadlier  hold, 

Never  the  cougar  a  wilder  spring, 
Strangling  the  oak  with  the  boa's  fold, 

Spanning  the  beech  with  the  condor's  wing. 

Yet  no  foe  that  we  fear  to  seek — 
10       The  boy  leaps  wild  to  thy  rude  embrace ; 
Thy  bulging  arms  bear  as  soft  a  cheek 
As  ever  on  lover's  breast  found  place : 
On  thy  waving  train  is  a  playful  hold 

Thou  shalt  never  to  lighter  grasp  persuade ; 
15  While  a  maiden  sits  in  thy  drooping  fold, 

And  swings  and  sings  in  the  noonday  shade ! 

O !  giant  strange  of  our  Southern  woods, 
I  dream  of  thee  still  in  the  well-known  spot, 

Though  our  vessel  strain  o'er  the  ocean  floods, 
20       And  the  Northern  forest  beholds  thee  not ; 

I  think  of  thee  still  with  a  sweet  regret, 

As  the  cordage  yields  to  my  playful  grasp — 

Dost  thou  spring  and  cling  in  our  woodlands  yet? 
Does  the  maiden  still  swing  in  thy  giant  clasp  ? 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 

25  Not  in  the  sky, 
Where  it  was  seen 

So  long  in  eminence  of  light  serene — 
Nor  on  the  white  tops  of  the  glistering  wave, 
Nor  down,  in  mansions  of  the  hidden  deep, 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  63 

30  Though  beautiful  in  green 

And  crystal,  its  great  caves  of  mystery 

Shall  the  bright  watcher  have 

Her  place  and,  as  of  old,  high  station  keep ! 

Gone !  gone ! 

35  Oh !  nevermore,  to  cheer 

The  mariner,  who  holds  his  course  alone 
On  the  Atlantic,  through  the  weary  night, 
When  the  stars  turn  to  watchers,  and  do  sleep, 
Shall  it  again  appear, 

40  With  the  sweet-loving  certainty  of  light, 
Down  shining  on  the  shut  eyes  of  the  deep ! 

The  upward-looking  shepherd  on  the  hills 
Of  Chaldea,*  night  returning,  with  his  flocks, 
He  wonders  why  his  beauty  doth  not  blaze, 

45  Gladding  his  gaze, — 

And,  from  his  dreary  watch  along  the  rocks, 
Guiding  him  homeward  o'er  the  perilous  ways ! 
How  stands  he  waiting  still,  in  a  sad  maze, 
Much  wondering,  while  the  drowsy  silence  fills 

50  The  sorrowful  vault ! — how  lingers,  in  the  hope  that 

night 

May  yet  renew  the  expected  and  sweet  light, 
So  natural  to  his  sight ! 

And  lone. 

Where,  at  the  first,  in  smiling  love  she  shone, 
55  Brood  the  once  happy  circle  of  bright  stars : 

How  should  they  dream,  until  her  fate  was  known, 
That  they  were  ever  confiscate  to  death? 
That  dark  oblivion  the  pure  beauty  mars, 
And,  like  the  earth,  its  common  bloom  and  breath, 
'  That  they  should  fall  from  high; 
The  lights  grow  blasted  by  a  touch,  and  die, — 
All  their  concerted  springs  of  harmony 
Snapped  rudely,  and  the  generous  music  gone ! 


64  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Ah !  still  the  strain 

65  Of  wailing  sweetness  fills  the  saddening  sky ; 
The  sister  stars, .  lamenting  in  their  pain 
That  one  of  the  selectest  ones  must  die — 
Must  vanish,  when  most  lovely,  from  the  rest ! 
Alas !  'tis  ever  thus  the  destiny. 

70  Even  Rapture's  song  hath  evermore  a  tone 
Of  wailing,  as  for  bliss  too  quickly  gone. 
The  hope  most  precious  is  the  soonest  lost, 
The  flower  most  sweet  is  first  to  feel  the  frost. 
Are  not  all  short-lived  things  the  loveliest? 

75  And,  like  the  pale  star,  shooting  down  the  sky, 
Look  they  not  ever  brightest,  as  they  fly 
From  the  lone  sphere  they  blest? 

SONG  IN  MARCH. 

Now  are  the  winds  about  us  in  their  glee, 

Tossing  the  slender  tree ; 
80  Whirling  the  sands  about  his  furious  car, 

March  cometh  from  afar ; 

Breaks  the  sealed  magic  of  old  Winter  s  dreams, 

And  rends  his  glossy  streams; 

Chafing  with  potent  airs,  he  fiercely  takes 
85  Their  fetters  from  the  lakes, 

And,  with  a  power  by  queenly  Spring  supplied, 

Wakens  the  slumbering  tide. 

With  a  wild  love  he  seeks  young  Summer's  charms 

And  clasps  her  to  his  arms ; 
90  Lifting  his  shield  between,  he  drives  away 

Old  Winter  from  his  prey; 

The  ancient  tyrant,  whom  he  boldly  braves, 

Goes  howling  to  his  caves ; 

And,  to  his  northern  realm  compelled  1     tty, 
95  Yields  up  the  victory ; 

Melted  are  all  his  bands,  overthrown  his  towers, 

And  March  comes  bringing  flowers. 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  65 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 
(1809-1849.) 

In  all  literary  history  there  is  scarcely  a  record  of 
a  life  more  filled  with  trials,  discouragement,  and  sor 
row  than  that  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  His  grandfather, 
General  David  Poe,  was  a  famous  Revolutionary  hero ; 
his  father  had  deserted  the  practice  of  law  to  join  a 
company  of  players  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina; 
and  his  mother  was  a  beautiful  actress  who  was  a 
member  of  this  troupe.  He  was  born  while  the  com 
pany  was  playing  in  Boston.  Two  years  later  his 
father  was  lying  dead  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  and  the 
mother  soon  followed.  Edgar  was  adopted  t^y  John 
Allan,  a  very  wealthy  merchant  of  that  city,  and  by 
much  petting  and  indulgence  in  amusing  but  doubt 
ful  customs,  such  as  drinking  repeatedly  to  company's 
health,  was  given  a  most  promising  start  toward  fu 
ture  troubles  and  final  ruin.  At  the  age  of  six  he  was 
taken  to  England  and  attended  school  there  for  five 
years. 

In  1826  he  entered  the  University  of  Virginia,  im 
mediately  gained  notice  in  the  study  of  languages, 
began  to  drink  and  gamble,  contracted  heavy  debts, 
was  taken  from  the  institution,  entered  a  counting- 
house  of  Mr.  Allan's,  ran  away,  and  went  to  Boston. 
There  he  published  a  volume  of  verse  (1827)  and, 
under  an  assumed  name,  entered  the  regular  army. 
In  1829  Mr.  Allan  had  him  entered  at  West  Point; 
but,  through  willful  neglect  of  duty,  he  was  discharged 
5 


66  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

in  1831.  Another  volume  of  verse  appeared  soon  aft 
erwards.  In  1833  he  won  a  prize  of  one  hundred  dol 
lars  offered  by  The  Baltimore  Saturday  Visitor  for 
the  best  short  story — his  Manuscript  Found  in  a  Bot 
tle.  He  secured  a  place  on  the  Southern  Literary 
Messenger  of  Baltimore,  in  1835,  was  made  editor, 
married  his  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm,  during  the  next 
year,  and  soon  lost  his  position  on  the  Messenger, 
possibly  through  drinking  and  neglect  of  duty.  One 
year  in  New  York,  six  in  Philadelphia,  back  to  New 
York,  South  again,  and  then  death  in  a  dreadful  form 
— such  is  the  closing  history  of  his  career. 

In  Philadelphia  he  became  editor  of  The  Gentle 
man's  Magazine  and  later  of  Graham's  Magazine.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  he  was  writing  some  of  his  great 
est  stories  and  such  poetry  as  The  Raven  (1844).  In 
1845  he  gained  both  business  and  editorial  control  of 
The  Broadway  Journal,  New  York;  but  this  soon 
failed.  His  beloved  wife,  who  had  ever  been  an  in 
spiration  and  help  to  him,  died  amidst  heartrending 
poverty,  in  1847.  Poe,  now  a  mere  wreck,  wandered 
back  to  Baltimore,  and  is  said  to  have  been  drugged, 
taken  to  the  polls  to  be  voted,  and  then  left  half  dead 
upon  the  streets.  He  died  Sunday,  October  7,  1849. 
"He  was  great  in  his  genius,  unhappy  in  his  life, 
wretched  in  his  death;  but  in  his  fame  he  is  immor 
tal." 

In  technical  and  artistic  phases  Poe's  poetry  is 
scarcely  equaled  by  that  of  any  other  American  poet. 
His  theory  of  verse  was  that  words  were  instruments 
or  means  for  producing  music,  and  sometimes  he  made 
meaning  subordinate  to  sound.  He  taught  no  philoso- 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  67 

phy  and  was  neither  moral  nor  immoral;  he  was  sim 
ply  unmoral.  But  in  the  higher  harmony  of  beauti 
fully  mingling  words  he  was  a  master.  He  believed 
that  a  song  was  worth  while  simply  as  a  song.  Swin 
burne  has  said  of  our  country :  "Once  as  yet,  and  once 
only,  has  there  sounded  out  of  it  all  one  pure  note  of 
original  song  worth  singing  and  echoed  from  the  sing 
ing  of  no  other  man ;  a  note  of  song  neither  wide  nor 
deep,  but  utterly  true,  rich,  clear,  and  native  to  the 
singer ;  the  short  exquisite  music,  subtle  and  simple 
and  somber  and  sweet,  of  Edgar  Poe." 


ISRAFEL. 

"And  the  angel  Israfcl,  whose  heartstrings  are  a  lute,  and 
who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures." — Koran. 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 
Whose  heartstrings  are  a  lute; 

None  sing  so  wildly  well 

As  the  angel  Israfel, 
5  And  the  giddy*  stars  (so  legends  tell), 

Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 
10       The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin* 
(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 
Which  were  seven) 
15       Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 


68  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 
20       By  which  he  sits  and  sings, — 
The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 
25  Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God, 
Where  the  Houri*  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 
80       Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest: 
Merrily  live,  and  long! 

35  The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit : 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute ; 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

40  Yes,  Heaven  is  thine ;  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

45  If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 

50  While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 
From  my  lyre  within  the  sky.* 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  69 


THE  BELLS.* 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 

Silver  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme,* 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune. 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle  dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

O,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future !    How  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 


70  THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Of  the  bells,,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
85  Bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 


Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 

Brazen  bells ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells! 
90       In  the  startled  ear  of  night 

How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

95  In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic 

fire. 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
100     NOW — now  to  sit,  or  never, 

By  the  side  of  the  palefaced  moon. 
O,  the  bells,  bells,  bells ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of   Despair! 

105     How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 

On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows 

By  the  twanging 
110  And  the  clanging, 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
115     How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, — 

By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the 

bells, 
Of  the  bells, 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  71 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
120  In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

Iron  bells ! 
What  a   world   of   solemn   thought   their   monody 

compels ! 

In  the  silence  of  the  night 
125     How  we  shiver  with  affright 

At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

130     And  the  people — ah,  the  people, 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 

And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 
In  that  muffled  monotone, 
135     Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human. 

They  are  Ghouls! 

140     And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls 

A  psean  from  the  bells; 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
145     With  the  pa^an  of  the  bells, 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  psean  of  the  bells, 
150  Of  the  bells: 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 


72  THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 

In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells: 
To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


ANNABEL  LEE.* 

165  It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 
170     Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee; 
175  With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 
180     My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 

So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulcher 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  7$ 

185  The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me; 
Yes !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 
190     Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 
195     Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 


For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me 

dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
200  And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down*  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulcher  there  by  the  sea, 
205     In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


THE  RAVEN.* 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 
weak  and  weary. 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  for 
gotten  lore, — 

While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there 
came  a  tapping. 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my 
chamber  door. 


74  THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

210  "Tis  some  visitor,"   I   muttered,   "tapping  at  my 
chamber  door : 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  De 
cember, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost 
upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ; — vainly  I  had  sought 

to  borrow 

215  From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore, 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore : 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 


And   the    silken,   sad,    uncertain   rustling   of   each 
purple  curtain 

Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never 

felt  before; 

220  So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 
repeating: 

"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  cham 
ber  door. 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 
door : 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew   stronger ;  hesitating  then 

no  longer, 
225 "Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 

implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you 

came  rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my 
chamber  door, 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  75 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened 
wide  the  door : — 

Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

230  Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 

wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared 

to  dream  before ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "Lenore?" 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word,  "Lenore :" 
235  Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within 
me  burning, 

Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than 
before. 

"Surely/'  said  I,  "surely  that  is  something  at  my 
window  lattice ; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 

explore  ; 

240  Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  ex 
plore  : 

'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a 

flirt  and  flutter,* 
In   there  stepped  a  stately  Raven*   of  the   saintly 

days  of  yore. 
Not   the   least   obeisance   made   he;   not   a   minute 

stopped  or  stayed  he; 
245 But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 

chamber  door, 


76  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas*  just  above  my  cham 
ber  door : 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 
smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance 

it  wore, — 

230  "Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I 
said,  "art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from 
the  Nightly  shore: 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu 
tonian*  shore:" 

Quoth   the   Raven,   "Nevermore." 


Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  dis 
course  so  plainly, 

255  Though  his  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy 
bore; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 
being 

Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his 
chamber  door, 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his 
chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 


260  But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on   the  placid  bust, 

spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he 

did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then 

he  fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "Other  friends 

have  flown  before: 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  77 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have 

flown  before." 
265  Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly 
spoken, 

"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 
and  store, 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerci 
ful  Disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore: 

270  Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 
bore 

Of   'Never — nevermore.'  " 

But  the  Raven   still  beguiling  all  my   fancy  into 
smiling, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 
and  bust  and  door; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to 

linking 

275  Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird 
of  yore, 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  omi 
nous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in   croaking  "Nevermore." 

Thus  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex 
pressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 

bosom's  core; 

280  This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 
reclining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight 
gloated  o'er, 


7  THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight 
gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press.,   ah,   nevermore ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed 

from  an  unseen  censer 
285  Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the 

tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"   I   cried,   "thy   God  hath   lent   thee— by 

these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe*  from  thy  memories 

of  Lenore; 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this 

lost  Lenore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,   "Nevermore." 

-90"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil ! 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed 
thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en 
chanted — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I 
implore : 

Is  there— is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?*— tell  me— tell 

me,  I  implore!" 
205  Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet !"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil !  prophet  still,  if 
bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God 
we  both  adore, 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  dis 
tant  Aidenn,* 

It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore : 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  79 

300  Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend!" 

I  shrieked,  upstarting: 
"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's 

Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 

hath  spoken ! 
305 Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken!  quit  the  bust  above 

my  door! 
Take   thy  beak   from  out  my  heart,   and  take  thy 

form  from  off  my  door !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,   "Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door; 
310  And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 

is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his 

shadow  on  the  floor : 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 

on  the  floor 

Shall  be   lifted — nevermore  ! 


To  ONE  IN  PARADISE.* 

Thou  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine — 

A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 
A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 

All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

820 Ah,  dream,  too  bright  to  last! 

Ah,  starry  Hope,  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"On !  on  !"— but  o'er  the  Past 
825      (Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast ! 

For,  alas  !  alas !  with  me 
The  light  of  Life  is  o'er ! 
No  more — no  more — no  more — 
330  ( Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree 
Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar ! 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 
335     And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  dark  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

Bv  what  eternal  streams. 


THE  CONQUEROR  WORM.* 

340  Lo!  'tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years. 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theater*  to  see 
345     A  play*  of  hopes  and  fears, 

While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 
The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,*  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 
Mutter  and  mumble  low, 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  8 1 

350 And  hither  and  thither  fly; 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  condor  wings 
355     Invisible  woe. 

That  motley  drama — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot! 
With  its  Phantom*  chased  for  evermore 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
360  Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  selfsame  spot ; 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 


But  see  amid  the  mimic  rout 
365     A  crawling  shape  intrude: 

A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude! 
It  writhes — it  writhes  ! — with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
370 And  seraphs  sob  at  vermin  fangs 
In  human  gore  imbued. 


Out — out  are  the  lights — out  all ! 

And  over  each  quivering  form 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
While  ^the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "Man," 

And  its  hero,  the  Conqueror  Worm. 

6 


82  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

ALBERT  PIKE. 
(1809-1891.) 

Albert  Pike  was  born  at  Boston,  attended  Harvard 
for  a  short  time,  taught  school  in  New  England,  and 
in  1831  made  an  extensive  tour  of  the  West.  In  1833 
he  settled  at  Fort  Smith,  Arkansas,  and  there  taught 
school,  edited  the  Arkansas  Advocate,  and  studied  law. 
He  served  through  the  war  with  Mexico,  and  was  a 
brigadier  general  in  charge  of  Indian  troops  in  the 
Confederate  army.  In  1866  he  removed  to  Memphis, 
Tennessee,  and  there  edited  the  Appeal,  and  in  1868 
took  up  the  practice  of  law  at  Washington,  D.  C.  Be 
sides  writing  many  works  on  Freemasonry,  he  was  the 
author  of  four  volumes  of  verse,  the  most  famous, 
perhaps,  being  his  Hymns  to  the  Gods,  contributed  to 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 

To  THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 

Thou  glorious  mocker  of  the  world !  I  hear 

Thy  many  voices  ringing  through  the  glooms 
Of  these  green  solitudes ;  and  all  the  clear. 
Bright  joyance  of  their  song  enthralls  the  ear, 
5       And  floods  the  heart.    Over  the  sphered  tombs. 
Of  vanished  nations  rolls  thy  music  tide; 

No  light  from  History's  starlit  page  illumes 
The  memory  of  these  nations;  they  have  died: 

None  care  for  them  but  thou;  and  thou  mayst 
sing 

O'er  me,  perhaps,  as  now  thy  clear  notes  ring 
Over  their  bones  by  whom  thou  once  wast  deified. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  83 

Glad  scorner  of  all  cities  !*    Thou  dost  leave 
The  world's  mad  turmoil  and  incessant  din, 

Where  none  in  other's  honesty  believe, 
15  Where  the  old  sigh,  the  young  turn  gray  and  grieve, 
Where  misery  gnaws  the  maiden's  heart  within: 

Thou  fleest  far  into  the  dark  green  woods, 

Where,  with  thy  flood  of  music,  thou  canst  win 

Their  heart  to  harmony,  and  where  intrudes 
No  discord  on  thy  melodies.     O,  where, 
Among  the  sweet  musicians  of  the  air, 

Is  one  so  dear  as  thou  to  these  old  solitudes? 

Ha  !  what  a  burst  was  that !    The  yEolian*  strain 

Goes  floating  through  the  tangled  passages 
25  Of  the  still  woods,  and  now  it  comes  again, 
A  multitudinous  melody, — like  a  rain 

Of  glassy  music  under  echoing  trees, 
Close  by  a  ringing  lake.     It  wraps  the  soul 

With  a  bright  harmony  of  happiness, 
30  Even  as  a  gem  is  wrapped  when  round  it  roll 

Thin  waves  of  crimson  flame ;  till  we  become, 
With  the  excess  of  perfect  pleasure,  dumb. 
And  pant  like  a  swift  runner  clinging  to  the  goal. 


I  cannot  love*  the  man  who  doth  not  love, 
35       As  men  love  light,  the  song  of  happy  birds ; 
For  the  first  visions  that  my  boy  heart  wove 
To  fill  its  sleep  with,  were  that  I  did  rove 

Through  the  fresh  woods,  what  time  the  snowy 

herds 

Of  morning  clouds  shrunk  from  the  advancing  sun 
40       Into  the  depths  of  Heaven's  blue  heart,  as  words 
From  the  Poet's  lips  float  gently,  one  by  one, 
And  vanish  in  the  human  heart ;  and  then 
I  reveled  in  such  songs,  and  sorrowed  when, 
With  noon-heat  overwrought,  the  music-gush  was 
done. 


84  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

45  I  would,  sweet  bird,  that  I  might  live  with  thee, 

Amid  the  eloquent  grandeur  of  these  shades, 
Alone  with  nature— but  it  may  not  be ; 
I  have  to  struggle  with  the  stormy  sea 

Of  human  life  until  existence  fades 
50  Into  death's  darkness.     Thou  wilt  sing  and  soar 

Through  the  thick  woods  and  shadow-checkered 

glades, 

While  pain  and  sorrow  cast  no  dimness  o'er 
The  brilliance  of  thy  heart ;  but  I  must  wear, 
As  now,  my  garments  of  regret  and  care, 
55  As  penitents  of  old  their  galling  sackcloth  wore. 

Yet  why  complain?    What  though  fond  hopes  de 
ferred 
Have    overshadowed    Life's    green    paths    with 

gloom? 

Content's  soft  music  is  not  all  unheard ; 
There  is  a  voice  sweeter  than  thine,  sweet  bird, 
60  To  welcome  me  within  my  humble  home ; 
There  is  an  eye,  with  love's  devotion  bright, 

The  darkness  of  existence  to  illume. 
Then  why  complain?    When  Death  shall  cast  his 

blight 

Over  the  spirit,  my  cold  bones  shall  rest 
65  Beneath  these  trees ;  and  from  thy  swelling  breast, 
Over  them  pour  thy  song,  like  a  rich  flood  of  light. 

To  SPRING. 

O  thou  delicious  Spring! 
Nursed  in  the  lap  of  thin  and  subtle  showers, 

Which  fall  from  clouds  that  lift  their  snowy  wing 
70  From  odorous  beds  of  light-enfolded  flowers, 

And  from  enmassed  bowers, 
That  over  grassy  walks  their  greenness  fling, 
Come,  gentle  Spring! 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  85 

Thou  lover  of  young  wind, 
75  That  cometh  from  the  invisible  upper  sea 

Beneath  the  sky,  which  clouds,  its  white  foam, 

bind, 
And,  settling  in  the  trees  deliciously, 

Makes  young  leaves  dance  with  glee, 
Even  in  the  teeth  of  that  old,  sober  hind, 
Winter  unkind. 

Come  to  us;  for  thoti  art 
Like  the  fine  love  of  children,  gentle  Spring! 
Touching  the  sacred  feeling  of  the  heart, 
Or  like  a  virgin's  pleasant  welcoming  ; 

And  thou  dost  ever  bring 
A  tide  of  gentle  but  resistless  "art 
Upon  the  heart. 

Red  Autumn*  from  the  South 
Contends  with  thee ;  alas !  what  may  he  show  ? 
What  are  his  purple-stained  and  rosy  mouth, 
And  browned  cheeks,  to  thy  soft  feet  of  snow, 

And  timid,  pleasant  glow, 

Giving  earth-piercing  flowers  their  primal  growth, 
And  greenest  youth  ? 


95 


Gay  Summer  conquers  thee ; 
And  yet  he  has  no  beauty  such  as  thine  ; 
What  is  his  ever-streaming,  fiery  sea, 
To  the  pure  glory  that  with  thee  doth  shine  ? 

Thou  season  most  divine, 
What  may  his  dull  and  lifeless  minstrelsy 
Compare  with  thee? 

Come,  sit  upon  the  hills, 

And  bid  the  waking  streams  leap  down  their  side. 
And  green  the  vales  with  their  slight  sounding 
rills: 


86  THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

105  And  when  the  stars  upon  the  sky  shall  glide. 

And  crescent  Dian*  ride, 
I  too  will  breathe  of  thy  delicious  thrills, 
On  grassy  hills. 

Alas !  bright  Spring,  not  long 
110 Shall  I  enjoy  thy  pleasant  influence; 

For  thou  shalt  die  the  summer  heat  among, 
%   Sublimed  to  vapour  in  his  fire  intense, 

And,  gone  forever  hence, 
Exist  no  more :  no  more  to  earth  belong, 
115  Except  in  song. 

So  I  who  sing  shall  die : 
Worn  unto  death,  perchance,  by  care  and  sorrow ; 

And,  fainting  thus  with  an  unconscious  sigh. 
Bid  unto  this  poor  body  a  good-morrow, 
120  Which  now  sometimes  I  borrow, 

And  breathe  of  joyance  keener  and  more  high, 
Ceasing  to  sigh ! 


EVERY  YEAR. 

Life  is  a  count  of  losses, 

Every  year; 
125  For  the  weak  are  heavier  crosses, 

Every  year ; 

Lost  Springs  with  sobs  replying 
Unto  weary  Autumns'  sighing, 
While  those  we  love  are  dying, 
130  Every  year. 

The  days  have  less  of  gladness, 

Every  year ; 
The  nights  more  weight  of  sadness, 

Every  year ; 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  87 

135  Fair  Springs  no  longer  charm  us, 
The  winds  and  weather  harm  us, 
The  threats  of  Death  alarm  us, 
Every  year. 


There  come  new  cares  and  sorrows, 
140  Every  year; 

Dark  days  and  darker  morrows, 

Every  year ; 

The  ghosts  of  dead  loves  haunt  us, 
The  ghosts  of  changed  friends  taunt  us, 
145  And  disappointments  daunt  us, 
Every  vear. 


To  the  Past  go  more  dead  faces. 

Every  year ; 

As  the  loved  leave  vacant  places, 
i5o  Every  year; 

Everywhere  the  sad  eyes  meet  us, 
In  the  evening's  dusk  they  greet  us, 
And  to  come  to  them  entreat  us, 
Every  year. 

155  "You  are  growing  old,"  they  tell  us, 

''Every  year." 
"You  are  more  alone,"  they  tell  us, 

"Every  year; 

You  can  win  no  new  affection, 
IGO  YOU  have  only  recollection, 
Deeper  sorrow  and  dejection, 
Every  year." 

Too  true ! — Life's  shores  are  shifting, 

Every  year; 

165  And  we  are  seaward  drifting, 
Every  year ; 


88  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

Old  places,  changing,  fret  us, 
The  living  more  forget  us, 
There  are  fewer  to  regret  us, 
170  Every  year. 

But  the  truer  life  draws  nigher, 

Every  year; 
And  its  Morning  Star  climbs  higher, 

Every  year; 

175  Earth's  hold  on  us  grows  slighter, 
And  the  heavy  burthen  lighter, 
And  the  Dawn  Immortal  brighter. 

Every  year. 


ALEXANDER  BEAUFORT  MEEK. 
(1814-1865.) 

Alexander  Meek  was  born  at  Columbia,  South  Caro 
lina,  but  early  removed  to  Tuscaloosa,  Alabama.  He 
was  educated  at  the  University  of  Alabama  and  at  the 
University  of  Georgia,  and  became  a  lawyer  in  1835. 
He  served  as  editor  of  various  Southern  papers,  held 
several  political  positions,  and  was  in  1845  Assistant 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  His  verse  appeared  in  two 
volumes,  Red  Eagle  (1855)  and  Songs  and  Poems  of 
the  South  (1857). 

LAND  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

I. 
Land  of  the  South! — imperial  land! — 

How  proud  thy  mountains  rise! 
How  sweet  thy  scenes  on  every  hand! 
How  fair  thy  covering  skies! 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.  89 

5  But  not  for  this — oh,  not  for  these — 

I  love  thy  fields  to  roam; 
Thou  hast  a  dearer  spell  to  me, — 
Thou  art  my  native  home! 

II. 

The  rivers  roll  their  liquid  wealth, 
10       Unequaled  to  the  sea; 

Thy  hills  and  valleys  bloom  with  health, 

And  green  with  verdure  be! 
But  not  fpr  thy  proud  ocean  streams, 

Not  for  thine  azure  dome, 
15  Sweet,  sunny  South,  I  cling  to  thee, — 
Thou  art  my  native  home! 


III. 

I've  stood  beneath  Italia's  clime, 

Beloved  of  tale  and  song, 
On  Helvyn's*  hills,  proud  and  sublime, 
20       Where  nature's  wonders  throng; 
By  Tempe's*  classic  sunlit  streams, 

Where  Gods,  of  old,  did  roam, — 
But  ne'er  have  found  so  fair  a  land 

As  thou,  my  native  home ! 


IV. 

25  And  thou  hast  prouder  glories,  too, 

Than  nature  ever  gave; 
Peace  sheds  o'er  thee  her  genial  dew, 

And  Freedom's  pinions  wave; 
Fair  Science  flings  her  pearls  around, 
B0       Religion  lifts  her  dome, — 

These,  these  endear  thee  to  my  heart, 
My  own,  loved  native  home ! 


9°  THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


V. 

And  "Heaven's  best  gift  to  man"*  is  thine — 

God  bless  thy  rosy  girls ! 
35  Like  sylvan  flowers  they  sweetly  shine, 

Their  hearts  are  pure  as  pearls ! 
And  grace  and  goodness  circle  them, 

Where'er  their  footsteps  roam; 
How  can  I  then,  whilst  loving  them, 
40       Not  love  mv  native  home  ? 


VI. 

Land  of  the  South! — imperial  land! — 

Then  here's  a  health  to  thee : 
Long  as  thy  mountain  barriers  stand, 

May'st  thou  be  blest  and  free ! 
May  dark  dissension's  banner  ne'er 

Wave  o'er  thy  fertile  loam ! 
But  should  it  come,  there's  one  will  die 

To  save  his  native  home ! 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 

From  the  vale,  what  music  ringing, 
r>0       Fills  the  bosom  of  the  night; 
On  the  sense,  entranced.,  flinging 
Spells  of  witchery  and  delight! 
O'er  magnolia,  lime,  and  cedar, 
From  yon  locust  top  it  swells, 
e5  Like  the  chant  of  serenader, 

Or  the  rhymes  of  silver  bells ! 
Listen !  dearest,  listen  to  it ! 

Sweeter  sounds  were  never  heard ! 
'Tis  the  song  of  that  wild  poet— 
60  Mime   and   minstrel — Mocking   Bird. 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  9! 

See  him,  swinging  in  his  glory. 

On  yon  topmost  bending  limb! 
Caroling  his  amorous  story, 

Like  some  wild  crusader's  hymn ! 
65  Now  it  faints  in  tones  delicious 
As  the  first  low  vow  of  love ! 
Now  it  bursts  in  swells  capricious, 
All  the  moonlit  vale  above ! 
Listen !  dearest,  etc. 

70  Why  is't  thus,  this  sylvan  Petrarch* 

Pours  all  night  his  serenade? 
Tis  for  some  proud  woodland  Laura, 

His  sad  sonnets  all  are  made ! 
But  he  changes  now  his  measure — 
75       Gladness  bubbling  from  his  mouth — 
Jest,  and  gibe,  and  mimic  pleasure — 
Winged  Anacreon*  of  the  South! 
Listen !  dearest,  etc. 

Bird  of  music,*  wit,  and  gladness, 
80       Troubadour  of  sunny  climes, 
Disenchanter  of  all  sadness, 

Would  thine  art  were  in  my  rhymes ! 
O'er  the  heart  that's  beating  by  me 

I  would  weave  a  spell  divine; 
85  Is  there  aught  she  could  deny  me 

Drinking  in  such  strains  as  thine? 
Listen !  dearest,  etc. 


92  THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN'  POETRY. 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE. 
(1816-1850.) 

Philip  Pendleton  Cooke  was  supposed  to  be  a  law 
yer  ;  but  his  avocations — hunting  and  writing — left 
little  time  for  his  vocation.  Born  at  Martinsburg, 
Virginia,  he  was  educated  at  Princeton,  studied  law, 
and  opened  an  office — where  he  was  seldom  seen.  His 
verse  appeared  frequently  in  the  Knickerbocker  Maga 
zine,  The  Gentleman's  Magazine,  and  the  Southern 
Literary  Messenger.  His  one  collection,  Froissart 
Ballads  and  Other  Poems,  appeared  in  1847,  but  does 
not  by  any  means  contain  all  of  his  efforts.  Rosa  Lee 
and  To  My  Daughter  Lily  were  among  his  most  widely 
known  lines;  but  Florence  Vane  was  by  far  the  most 
popular. 

FLORENCE  VANE.* 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane; 
My  life's  bright  dream  and  early 

Hath  come  again; 
5  I  renew  in  my  fond  vision 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane ! 

The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary, 
10  The  ruin  old, 

Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 
At  even  told. — 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  93 

That  spot — the  hues  Elysian* 

Of  sky  and  plain — 
15  I  treasure  in  my  vision, 
Florence  Vane. 


Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime  ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 
20  Of  sweetest  rhyme; 

Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main.* 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane  ! 

25  But,   fairest,  coldest  wonder  ' 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under  — 

Alas  the  day! 

And  it  boots  not  to  remember 
30  Thy  disdain- 

To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 
Florence  Vane! 


The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
35  The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep: 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 

Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 
40          Florence  Vane  ! 


94  THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

SEVERN  TEACKLE  WALLIS. 
(1816-1894.) 

Severn  Teackle  Wallis  was  a  man  active  in  many 
walks  of  life.  Born  at  Baltimore,  he  was  educated 
at  St.  Mary's  College  in  that  city,  and  became  known 
as  one  of  the  most  successful  lawyers  and  reformers 
in  the  South.  In  1847  he  visited  Spain  and  wrote  his 
Glimpses  of  Spain,  and  two  years  later  was  appointed 
by  the  United  States  to  go  back  and  examine  the  titles 
of  East  Florida  lands.  He  became  Provost  of  the  Uni 
versity  of  Maryland  in  1870.  His  poetry  has  much 
carefulness,  nicety  in  the  use  of  words,  and  beauty 
of  sentiment.  His  most  popular  poems  in  former  days 
were  The  Last  of  the  Hours,  God's  Acres,  Truth  and 
Reason,  and  The  Blessed  Hand. 

THE  BLESSED  HAND.* 

For  you  and  me,  who  love  the  light 

Of  God's  uncloistered  day, 
It  were  indeed  a  dreary  lot 

To  shut  ourselves  away 
5  From  every  glad  and  sunny  thing 

And  pleasant  sight  and  sound, 
And  pass  from  out  a  silent  cell 

Into  the  silent  ground. 

Not  so  the  good  monk.  Anselm,  thought, 
10       For,  in  his  cloister's  shade, 

The  cheerful  faith  that  lit  his  heart 
Its  own  sweet  sunshine  made; 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  95 

And  in  its  glow  he  prayed  and  wrote, 

From  matin  song*  till  even, 

15  And  trusted,  in  the  Book  of  Life, 

To  read  his  name  in  heaven. 


What  holy  books  his  gentle  art 

Filled  full  of  saintly  lore! 
What  pages,  brightened  by  his  hand, 

The  splendid  missals*  bore  ! 
What  blossoms,  almost  fragrant,  twined 

Around  each  blessed  name, 
And  how  his  Saviour's  cross  and  crown 

Shone  out  from  cloud  and  flame ! 

-5  But  unto  clerk  as  unto  clown 

One  summons  comes,  alway, 
And.  Brother  Anselm  heard  the  call 

At  vesper  chime,*  one  day. 
His  busy  pen  was  in  his  hand, 
so       His  parchment  by  his  side — 

He  bent  him  o'er  the  half-writ  prayer, 
Kissed  Jesu's  name,  and  died! 

They  laid  him  where  a  window's  blaze 

Flashed  o'er  the  graven  stone, 
35  And  seemed  to  touch  his  simple  name 

With  pencil  like  his  own; 
And  there  he  slept,  and,  one  by  one, 

His  brethren  died  the  while, 
And  trooping  years  went  by  and  trod 
40       His  name  from  off  the  aisle. 

And  lifting  up  the  pavement  then, 
An  Abbot's  couch  to  spread, 

They  let  the  jeweled  sunshine  in 
Where  once  lay  Anselm's  head. 


96  THREE  CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

45  No  crumbling  bone  was  there,  no  trace 

Of  human  dust  that  told; 
But,  all  alone,  a  warm  right  hand 
Lay,  fresh,  upon  the  mold. 

It  was  not  stiff,  as  dead  men's  are, 
60       But,  with  a  tender  clasp, 

It  seemed  to  hold  an  unseen  hand 

Within  its  living  grasp ; 
And  ere  the  trembling  monks  could  turn 

To  hide  their  dazzled  eyes^ 
55  It  rose,  as  with  a  sound  of  wings, 
Right  up  into  the  skies ! 

O  loving,  open  hands  that  give, 
Soft  hands,  the  tear  that  dry, 

O  patient  hands  that  toil  to  bless— 
60       How  can  ye  ever  die ! 

Ten  thousand  vows  from  yearning  hearts 
To  heaven's  own  gates  shall  soar, 

And  bear  you  up,  as  Anselm's  hand 
Those  unseen  angels  bore ! 

65  Kind  hands!     O  never  near  to  you 

May  come  the  woes  ye  heal ! 
O  never  may  the  hearts  ye  guard, 

The  griefs  ye  comfort,  feel! 

May  He  in  whose  sweet  name  ye  build 

70       So  crown  the  work  ye  rear 

That  ye  may  never  clasped  be 

In  one  unanswered  prayer ! 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  97 

AMELIA    WELBY. 
(1819-1852.) 

Amelia  Welby  is  a  poet  who  has  deserved  much  more 
fame  than  is  now  hers.  She  was  born  at  St.  Michael's, 
Maryland ;  but  after  1834  she  lived  at  Louisville,  Ken 
tucky,  where  she  married  a  prosperous  merchant, 
George  B.  Welby.  About  1837  some  remarkably 
sweet  and  dainty  bits  of  verse  began  to  appear  under 
the  simple  name  "Amelia,"  and  the  appearance  of  her 
first  volume,  Poems  by  Amelia,  was  greeted  by  a  large 
number  of  readers.  The  promise  of  her  early  work 
was  not  fulfilled ;  for  she  died  in  her  thirty-third  year. 

TWILIGHT  AT  SEA. 

The  twilight  hours  like  birds  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free  ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea ; 
5  For  every  wave,  with  dimpled  face, 

That  leaped  upon  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace 

And  held  it  trembling  there.* 

To  A  SEA  SHELL. 

Shell  of  the  bright  sea  waves, 
What  is  it  that  we  hear  in  thy  sad  moan  ?* 
Is  this  unceasing  music  all  thine  own, 

Lute  of  the  ocean  caves? 


98  THREE  CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

•'Tis  vain — thou  answerest  not! 
Thou  hast  no  voice  to  whisper  of  the  dead ; 
15  Tis  ours  alone,  with  sighs  like  odors  shed, 
To  hold  them  un  forgot. 


THEODORE  O'HARA. 
(1820-1867.) 

Again  we  come  to  a  poet  made  famous  by  one  song. 
In  walking  through  some  of  our  great  national  ceme 
teries,  who  has  not  been  struck  by  the  appropriateness 
of  the  poetry  engraved  upon  the  tablets?  Probably 
lines  from  The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead  are  now  more 
familiar  than  verses  from  any  other  American  poem. 
The  author  was  born  at  Danville,  Kentucky,  entered 
the  United  States  army  in  1846,  served  through  the 
Mexican  War,  and  was  a  colonel  in  the  Confederate 
army.  His  only  famous  poem  was  written  in  memory 
of  the  Kentucky  soldiers  who  died  at  the  battle  of 
Buena  Vista. 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD. 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

•    The  soldier's  last  tattoo ; 

No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
5  On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  99 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming-  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  ^shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed  ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

25  The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 
^  That  sweeps  this  great  plateau, 
5  Flushed  with  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe.* 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 
Was  "Victory  or  death." 

40  Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged* 
O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 


100         THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 
The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain; 
45  And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 
Still  swelled  the  gory  tide ; 

Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain*  knew, 
Such  odds  his  strength  coufd  bide. 

'Twas  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 
50       Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  band 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  firstborn  laurels  grew, 
55  And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 
Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's*  plain— 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 
60       Above  its  moldering  slam. 

The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay^ 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

65  Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground,* 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resounc 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 
™       Shall  be  your  fitter  grave ; 

She  claims  from  War  his  richest  spoil- 
The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field ; 
«  Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother  s  breast* 
On  many  a  bloody  shield ; 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  ;P02TR.Y,  .  ...  IOI 

The  sunlight  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 
80      The  heroes'  sepulcher. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead, 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave ; 
85  Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 
90       In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 

When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown,, 

The  story  how  ye  fell; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
95  Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 
That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 


IV. 

THE  CIVIL  WAR  PERIOD. 

(1850-1875.) 


GENERAL  SURVEY. 

Here  is  a  period  that  opened  in  anger  and  war  and 
closed  in  sorrow  and  poyerty.  Scarcely  in  all  history 
can  so  complete  and  so  devastating  a  change  be  shown. 
The  entire  social,  economic,  and  political  system  was 
destroyed  for  all  time,  and  amid  the  ruins  hope  seemed 
forever  lost.  A  vast  horde  of  ignorant  slaves  were 
suddenly  vested  with  the  right  of  suffrage;  once  fer 
tile  fields  were  changed  to  deserted  wildernesses;  a 
great  wealth  had  become  a  pitiable  poverty;  a  section 
once  powerful  in  the  political  history  of  the  nation  had 
almost  lost  the  common  right  of  self-government.  Far 
more  terrible  was  the  fact  that  the  young  manhood 
of  the  nation  had  largely  perished  from  the  earth ;  and 
there  remained  but  a  wretched  remnant  of  a  once  proud 
and  cultured  people  to  build  upon  the  widespread 
ruins. 

Yet  from  such  environments  there  began  to  arise  a 
new  empire,  stronger  and  nobler  because  of  the  in 
tense  suffering  through  which  its  founders  had  passed. 
Then,  too,  it  was  based  more  nearly  upon  the  legal 
equality  of  men  and  the  dignity  of  labor.  It  was  all  a 
time  of  untold  hardships  and  bitter  discouragements, 
but  untiring  efforts.  The  history  can  be  traced  in  the 
literature  of  the  period.  At  first  we  have  the  valiant 
call  to  arms,  and  at  the  last  the  no  less  valiant  call  to 
labor.  In  those  days  the  poetry  of  the  South  reached 
its  noblest  heights.  Such  men  as  Timrod,  Hayne,  and 


106         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Lanier,  forgetting  their  own  sufferings,  used  the  God- 
given  gift  within  them  for  the  arousing,  the  encour 
agement,  the  inspiration  of  their  disheartened  country 
men.  In  the  real  emotions  and  real  pain  of  the  day 
the  daintiness  and  artificiality  of  Southern  poetry  large 
ly  disappeared,  and  singers  sang  with  naturalness  and 
true  effect.  But  let  these  singers  tell  their  own  story. 


PLANTATION  MELODIES. 

Doubtless  the  most  spontaneous  outburst  of  song 
known  to  modern  days  is  found  in  the  plantation  melo 
dies  of  the  American  negro.  Unfortunately — for  our 
poetry  at  least — the  United  States  sprang  into  exist 
ence  a  civilized,  intelligent,  prosaic  nation,  almost  en 
tirely  devoid  of  the  national  body  of  folklore  which 
every  great  European  people  considers  a  priceless 
treasure  of  antiguity.  Of  all  the  peoples  composing 
this  nation,  the  negro  alone  has  created  a  species  of 
lyric  verse  that  all  the  world  may  recognize  as  a  dis 
tinctly  American  production. 

The  black  man  is  undoubtedly  the  best  natural  musi 
cian  and  orator  among  modern  peoples.  Song  is  to 
him  the  very  soul  of  life:  it  is  an  ever-present  com 
panion;  it  is  a  helper  in  toil,  a  pastime  in  idleness,  a 
comforter  in  the  time  of  sorrow.  How  strange,  how 
weird  are  his  harmonies,  so  unmodern,  so  redolent  of 
an  age  long  past!  Amid  the  throb  of  the  roaring 
streets,  down  on  the  gray  sweltering  dock,  and  far 
away  at  the  cabin  door  by  the  cotton  field,  the  same 
melodies  are  arising — the  folk  songs  of  a  people  united 
by  their  love  of  music.  There  is  always  present  a  note 
of  sadness,  although  the  actual  words  may  have  some 
thing  of  gayety.  The  "coon  song,"  invented  by  the 
white  man,  is  not  of  the  same  class ;  nor  are  the  beauti 
ful  lyrics,  Suwanee  Ribbcr  and  Old  Kentucky  Home, 
native  negro  melodies.  In  their  half  -  expressed 

(107) 


108         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

thoughts,  their  minor  keys,  their  swaying  rhythm,  and 
their  unexpected  endings,  the  plantation  songs  defy 
imitation. 

MOURNER'S  SONG.* 

I  am  sinking, 
I  am  sinking, 
I  am  sinking 
Down  in  death! 
5    Lord,  have  mercy, 
Lord,  have  mercy, 
Lord,  have  mercy 
On  my  soul! 


ROLL,  JORDAN,  ROLL.* 

My  bruddah  sittin'  on  de  tree  of  life, 
10       An'  he  hyeah  when  Jordan  roll. 

Roll,  Jordan, 
Roll,  Jordan. 
Roll,  Jordan,  roll. 
O,  march  de  angel  march. 
15   O  my  soul,  rise  in  heaven,  Lord, 
Fah  to  hyeah  when  Jordan  roll ! 

Little  chil'en,  learn  to  feah  de  Lord, 
An'  let  youah  days  be  long,* 

Roll,  Jordan,  etc. 

20  O  let  no  false  nah  spiteful  word 
Be  found  upon  youah  tongue. 

Roll,  Jordan,  etc. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  109 


HEAVEN. 

I  ain't  been  thah. 
But  I'se  been  tole 

25    (Histe  de  window,  let  de  dove  come  in!)* 
The  gates  am  pearl. 
The  streets  am  gole 
(Histe  de  window,  let  de  dove  come  in!). 

SWING  Low,  SWEET  CHARIOT.* 

O,  de  good  ole  chariot  swing  so  low, 
30       I  don't  want  to  leave  me  behind. 
O,  swing  low,  sweet  chariot, 
Swing  low,  sweet  chariot, 
I  don't  want  to  leave  me  behind. 

O,  de  good  ole  chariot  will  take  us  all  home, 
85       I  don't  want  to  leave  me  behind. 

O,  swing  low,  sweet  chariot,  etc. 

THE  DEAD. 

I  has  a  fathah  ovah  yondah, 
I  has  a  fathah  ovah  yondah, 
I  has  a  fathah  ovah  yondah, 
40  Way  ovah  in  de  promise  Ian'! 
By  an'  by  I'll  go  to  see  him, 
By  an'  by  I'll  go  to  see  him, 
By  an'  by  I'll  go  to  see  him, 
Way  ovah  thah ! 

45  I  has  a  mothah  ovah  yondah,  etc. 
I  has  a  brothah  ovah  yondah,  etc. 

(Thus  the  song  continues  until  all  the  numerous  rela 
tives  are  remembered.) 


110         THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


IN  DE  MORNIN'. 

In  de  morning 
In  de  morning 
Chil'en?     Yes,  my  Lord! 
60       Don't  you  hyeah  de  trumpet  soun'? 
If  I  had  a-died  when  I  was  young, 
I  nevah  would  had  de  race  fah  to  run, 
Don't  you  hyeah  de  trumpet  soun'  ? 

O,  Sam  and  Petah  was  a-fishm'  in  de  sea, 
55  And  dey  drop  de  net  and  follow  my  Lord. 
Don't  you  hyeah,  etc. 

Dah's  a  silvah  spade*  fah  to  dig  my  grave, 
An'  a  gol'en  chain  fah  to  let  me  down. 
Don't  you  hyeah  de  trumpet  soun'? 
60  In  de  mornin', 

In  de  mornin', 
Chil'en?    Yes,  my  Lord! 

Don't  you  hyeah  de  trumpet  soun'  ? 


SAVANNAH  FREEMAN'S  SONG. 

Heave  away!     Heave  away! 
65  I'd  rathah  court  a  yellow  gal  dan  work 

Fah  Henry  Clay. 
Heave  away!     Heave  away! 
Yellow  gal,  I  want  to  go, 
I'd  rather  court  a  yellow  gal,  etc. 
70  Heave  away ! 

Yellow  gal,  I  want  to  go. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  I  I  I 


LAY  Dis  BODY  DOWN.* 

I  knows  moon-rise,  I  knows  star-rise, 

Lay  dis  body  down; 
I  walks  in  de  moonlight,  I  walks  in  de  starlight, 

Lay  dis  body  down. 
I  walks  in  de  graveyard,  I  walks  troo  de  graveyard, 

Lay  dis  body  down. 
I  goes  to  de  judgment  in  de  evenin'  of  de  day, 

When  I  lays  dis  body  down ; 
An'  my  soul  and  youah  soul  will  meet  in  de  day 

When  I  lays  dis  body  down. 


STARS  BEGIN  TO  FALL. 

I  fink  I  hyeah  my  brothah  say, 
Call  de  nation  great  and  small  ; 

I  looks  on  de  God's  right  han' 
When  de  stahs  begin  to  fall. 
O,  what  a  mournin',  sistah — 
O,  what  a  mournin',  brothah — 
O,  what  a  mournin', 
When  de  stahs  begin  to  fall ! 


CIVIL  WAR  SONGS. 

The  number  of  songs — i.  e.,  poems  to  be  set  to  music 
— written  especially  to  aid  the  Confederate  cause  is 
very  small.  Many  songs,  of  course,  were  sung  in 
camp;  but  they  were,  for  the  most  part,  old  familiar 
tunes  long  heard  about  the  fireside  and  in  the  field. 
Dixie  was  a  favorite  in  every  regiment;  but  as  it  was 


112          THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

written  by  Daniel  Emmett,  of  Ohio,  and  was  sung  on 
New  York  stages  two  years  before  it  reached  the 
South,  it  cannot  be  classified  as  a  Southern  produc 
tion.  The  same  may  be  said  of  Old  Kentucky  Home 
and  Snwanee  Ribber,  written  by  Stephen  Foster,  a 
native  of  Pennsylvania.  In  the  Union  camp  there 
were  dozens  of  songs  written  especially  for  the  war, 
songs  of  all  characters  from  the  stirring  Battle  Cry  of 
Freedom  to  Julia  Ward  Howe's  dignified  hymn :  "Mine 
eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord." 
But  it  must  not  be  inferred  that  the  Confederate  army 
was  absolutely  destitute  of  songs;  it  simply  lacked  a 
plentiful  supply  of  song  written  especially  for  the 
movement.  Among  the  few  were  Pike's  Southrons, 
Hear  Your  Country  Call  You,  Randall's  Maryland, 
My  Maryland,  and  the  ones  given  below,  the  authors 
of  some  of  which  are  not  known. 


CALL  ALL. 

Whoop !  the  Doodles  have  broken  loose, 
Roaring  round  like  the  very  deuce ! 
Lice  of  Egypt,*  a  hungry  pack- 
After  'em,  boys,  and  drive  'em  back. 

Bulldog,  terrier,  cur,  and  fice. 
Back  to  the  beggarly  land  of  ice ; 
Worry  'em,  bite  'em,  scratch  and  tear 
Everybody  and  everywhere. 

Old  Kentucky  is  caved  from  under,* 
Tennessee  is  split  asunder,* 
Alabama  awaits  attack, 
And  Georgia  bristles  up  her  back. 


20 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.         113 

Old  John  Brown  is  dead  and  gone!* 
Still  his  spirit*  is  marching  on— 
Lantern-jawed,  and  legs,  my  boys, 
Long  as  an  ape's  from  Illinois  !* 

Want  a  weapon?     Gather  a  brick,* 
Club  or  cudgel,  or  stone  or  stick  ; 
Anything  with  a  blade  or  butt, 
Anything  that  can  cleave  or  cut. 

Anything  heavy,  or  hard,  or  keen  ! 
Any  sort  of  slaying  machine  ! 
Anything  with  a  willing  mind, 
And  the  steady  arm  of  a  man  behind. 

25       Want  a  weapon  ?     Why,  capture  one ! 
Every  Doodle  has  got  a  gun, 
Belt,  and  bayonet,  bright  and  new; 
Kill  a  Doodle,  and  capture  two! 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  son  and  sire! 
All,  call  all  to  the  feast  of  fire ! 
Mother  and  maiden,  and  child  and  slave, 
A  common  triumph  or  a  single  grave. 


THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG.* 

We  are  a  band  of  brothers,  and  native  to  the  soil, 
Fighting  for  the  property  we  gained  by  honest  toil ; 
And  when  our  rights  were  threatened,  the  cry  rose 

near  and  far: 
Hurrah  for  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single 

star! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star ! 
8 


114         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 

As  long  as  the  Union  was  faithful  to  her  trust, 
40  Like  friends  and  like  brothers,  kind  were  we  and 

just; 
But  now  when  Northern  treachery  attempts  our 

rights  to  mar, 
We  hoist  on  high  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a 

single  star. 

First,  gallant  South  Carolina  nobly  made  the  stand ; 
Then  came  Alabama,  who  took  her  by  the  hand ; 
45  Next,  quickly  Mississippi,  Georgia,  and  Florida- 
All  raised  the  flag,  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears 
a  single  star. 

Ye  men  of  valor,  gather  round  the  banner  of  the 

right ; 

Texas  and  fair  Louisiana  join  us  in  the  fight. 
Davis,  our  loved  President,  and  Stephens,  statesmen 

are; 
50  Now  rally  round  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears 

a  single  star. 

And  here's  to  brave  Virginia!  the  Old  Dominion 

State 
With  the  young  Confederacy  at  length  has  linked 

her  fate. 

Impelled  by  her  example,  now  other  States  prepare 
To  hoist  on  high  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears 

a  single  star. 

55  Then  here's  to  our  Confederacy !  strong  we  are  and 

brave, 

Like  patriots  of  old  we'll  fight,  our  heritage  to  save ; 
And  rather  than  submit  to  shame,  to  die  we  would 

prefer ; 
So  cheer  for  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single 

star. 


THREE    CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY.          115 

Then  cheer,  boys,  cheer,  raise  the  joyous  shout, 
3  For  Arkansas  and  North  Carolina  now  have  both 

gone  out; 
And  let  another  rousing  cheer  for  Tennessee  be 

given, 
The  single  star  of  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag  has  grown 

to  be  eleven ! 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  for  the  bonnie  Blue  Flag 
That  bears  a  single  star. 

THE  SOLDIER  BOY.* 

65  I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade 

In  fair  Damascus*  fashioned  well. 
Who  first  the  glittering  falchion  swayed, 

Who  first  beneath  its  fury  fell, 
I  know  not ;  but  I  hope  to  know 

That  for  no  mean  or  hireling  trade, 
To  guard  no  feeling  base  or  low, 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade. 

Cool,  calm,  and  clear,  the  lucid  flood 

In  which  its  tempering  work  was  done ; 
75  As  calm,  as  cool,  as  clear  of  mood 

Be  thou,  whene'er  it  sees  the  sun  ; 
For  country's  claim,  at  honor's  call, 

For  outraged  friend,  insulted  maid, 
At  mercy's  voice  to  bid  it  fall, 
80       I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade. 

The  eye  which  marked  its  peerless  edge,* 

The  hand  that  weighed  its  balanced  poise, 
Anvil  and  pincers,  forge  and  wedge, 

Are  gone  with  all  their  flame  and  noise ; 
85  And  still  the  gleaming  sword  remains. 

So  when  in  dust  I  low  am  laid, 
Remember  by  these  heartfelt  strains  " 

I  give  my  soldier  boy  a  blade. 


Il6         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 


MARGARET  PRESTON. 
(1820-1897.) 

Margaret  Preston  was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Junkin, 
founder  of  Lafayette  College,  and  was  born  at  Phila 
delphia.     When  she  was  twenty-eight  years  old  her 
father  became  president  of  Washington    (afterwards 
Washington   and  Lee)    College,   and   from  that  time 
forth  she  resided  in  Virginia.     She  married  Colonel 
J.  T.  L.  Preston,  a  professor  in  the  Virginia  Military 
Institute,  at  Lexington.     Her  first  volume  of  poetry 
was  the  highly  popular  Bccchenbrook:  A  Rhyme  of 
the  War,  published  in  1866.     This  was  followed  by 
several  other  volumes.,  among  the  most  widely  known 
being  Old  Songs  and  New  (1870)  and  Colonial  Bal 
lads   (1887).     There  are  true  poetic  qualities  in  her 
work—simplicity,  emotion,  vividness,  melody,  and  ac 
curate  choice  of  words.    Her  merit  has  not  been  recog 
nized  to  the  proper  extent,  for  there  are  in  her  verse 
characteristics  of  exceptionally  high  order. 

CALLING  THE  ANGELS  IN.1 

We  mean  to  do  it.     Some  day,  some  day, 
We  mean  to  slacken  this  feverish  rush 

That  is  wearing  our  very  souls  away, 
And  grant  to  our  hearts  a  hush 

'These    selections    are    used    with    the   permission    of    Dr. 
George  J.  Preston,  Baltimore. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.         1 17 

5  That  is  only  enough  to  let  them  hear 
The  footsteps  of  angels  drawing  near.* 

We  mean  to  do  it.     Oh,  never  doubt, 

When  the  burden  of  daytime  broil  is  o'er, 
We'll  sit  and  muse  while  the  stars  come  out, 
10       As  the  patriarchs  sat  in  the  door 

Of  their  tents  with  a  heavenward-gazing  eye, 
To  watch  for  angels  passing  by. 

We've  seen  them  afar  at  high  noontide, 

When  fiercely  the  world's  hot  flashings  beat; 
15  Yet  never  have  bidden  them  turn  aside 

To  tarry  in  converse  sweet ; 
Nor  prayed  them  to  hallow  the  cheer  we  spread, 
To  drink  of  our  wine  and  break  our  bread. 

We  promise  our  hearts  that  when  the  stress 
20       Of  the  life  work  reaches  the  longed-for  close, 
When  the  weight  that  we  groan  with  hinders  less, 

We'll  welcome  such  calm  repose 
As  banishes  care's  disturbing  din, 
And  then — we'll  call  the  angels  in. 

25  The  day  that  we  dreamed  of  comes  at  length, 

When,  tired  of  every  mocking  guest, 
And  broken  in  spirit  and  shorn  of  strength, 

We  drop  at  the  door  of  rest, 
And  wait  and  watch  as  the  day  wanes  on — 
30  But  the  angels  we  meant  to  call  are  gone ! 


Il8         THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


THE  HERO  OF  THE  COMMUNE.* 

"Gargon  !*  you — you 
Snared  along  with  this  cursed  crew  ? 
(Only  a  child,  and  yet  so  bold, 
Scarcely  as  much  as  ten  years  old!) 
Do  you  hear  ?  do  you  know 
Why  the  gendarmes  put  you  there,  in  the  row, 
You,  with  those  Commune  wretches  tall. 
With  your  face  to  the  wall?" 

"Know  ?     To  be  sure  I  know  !  why  not  ? 
40     We're  here  to  be  shot ; 

And  there,  by  the  pillar,  's  the  very  spot. 
Fighting  for  France,  my  father  fell ! 
'  Ah,   well ! 

That's  just  the  way  I  would  choose  to  fall, 
45         With  my  back  to  the  wall !" 

"(Sacre!*     Fair,  open  fight,  I  say, 
Is  something  right  gallant  in  its  way, 
And  fine  for  warming  the  blood ;  but  who 
Wants  wolfish  work  like  this  to  do? 
50  Bah!  'tis  a  butcher's  business!)     How? 
(The  boy  is  beckoning  to  me  now ! 
I  knew  that  his  poor  child's  heart  would  fail, 

.    .    .    Yet  his  cheek's  not  pale!) 
Quick !  say  your  say,  for  don't  you  see, 
85  When  the  church  clock  yonder  tolls  out  three, 

You're  all  to  be  shot? 

.    .    .    What? 

'Excuse  you  one  moment  ?'     O,  ho,  ho ! 
Do  you  think  to  fool  a  gendarme  so  ?" 

60  "But,  sir,  here's  a  watch  that  a  friend  one  day 
(My  father's  friend),  just  over  the  way, 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  119 

Lent  me ;  and  if  you'll  let  me  free — 
It  still  lacks  seven  minutes  of  three — 
I'll  come,  on  the  word  of  a  soldier's  son, 
65  Straight  back  into  line,  when  my  errand's  done." 

"Ha,  ha  !     No  doubt  of  it !     Off !     Begone ! 
(Now,  good  Saint  Denis,*  speed  him  on! 
The  work  will  be  easier  since  he's  saved; 
For  I  hardly  see  how  I  could  have  braved 
70  The  ardor  of  that  innocent  eye, 

As  he  stood  and  heard, 

While  I  gave  the  word, 
Dooming  him  like  a  dog  to  die.)" 

"In  time !  well,  thanks,  that  my  desire 
75  Was  granted ;  and  now,  I  am  ready  !     Fire ! 

One  word ! — that's  all ! 
You'll  let  me  turn  my  back  to  the  wall  ?" 

"Parbleu  !*     Come  out  of  the  line,  I  say, 
Come  out!  (Who  said  that  his  name  was  Ney?*) 
80  Ha !  France  will  hear  of  him  yet  one  day !" 


THE  SHADE  OF  THE  TREES. 

(On  the  death  of  Stonewall  Jackson,  1863,  his  last  words 
being,  "Let  us  pass  over  the  river  and  rest  under  the  shade 
of  the  trees/') 

What  are  the  thoughts  that  are  stirring  his  breast? 

What  is  the  mystical  vision  he  sees  ? 
"Let  us  pass  over  the  river  and  rest 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees." 

85  Has  he  grown  sick  of  his  toils  and  his  tasks  ? 
Sighs  the  worn  spirit  for  respite  or  ease? 


120         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Is  it  a  moment's  cool  halt  that  he  asks 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ? 


Is  it  the  gurgle  of  waters  whose  flow 
90       Ofttime  has  come  to  him  borne  on  the  breeze, 
Memory  listens  to,  lapsing  so  low, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees? 


Nay — though  the  rasp  of  the  flesh  was  so  sore, 

Faith,  that  had  yearnings  far  keener  than  these,* 
95  Saw  the  soft  sheen  of  the  Thitherward  Shore, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees;— 

Caught  the  high  psalms  of  ecstatic  delight, 

Heard  the  harps  harping  like  soundings  of  seas. 
Watched  earth's  assoiled  ones  walking  in  white 
100     Under  the  shade  of  the  trees. 

O,  was  it  strange  he  should  pine  for  release, 

Touched  to  the  soul  with  such  transports  as  these, 

He  who  so  needed  the  balsam  of  peace, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees? 


105  yes,  it  was  noblest  for  him — it  was  best 

(Questioning  naught  of  our  Father's  decrees) 
There  to  pass  over  the  river  and  rest 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees ! 


A  GRAVE  IN  HOLLYWOOD  CEMETERY,  RICHMOND.* 

I  read  the  marble-lettered  name, 
110     And  half  in  bitterness  I  said: 
"As  Dante*  from  Ravenna  came, 
Our  poet  came  from  exile — dead." 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  H 

And  yet,  had  it  been  asked  of  him 

Where  he  would  rather  lay  his  head, 
115  This  spot  he  would  have  chosen.     Dim 
The  city's  hum  drifts  o'er  his  grave, 
And  green  above  the  hollies  wave 
Their  jagged  leaves,  as  when  a  boy, 

On  blissful  summer  afternoons,' 
120     He  came  to  sing  the  birds  his  runes 
And  tell  the  river  of  his  joy. 

Who  dreams  that  in  his  wanderings  wide, 
By  stern  misfortunes  tossed  and  driven, 
His  soul's  electric  strands  were  riven 
25  From  home  and  country  ?     Let  betide 

What  might,  what  would,  his  boast,  his  pride, 

Was  in  his  stricken  motherland, 

That  could  but  bless  and  bid  him  go, 

Because  no  crust  was  in  her  hand 
To  stay  her  children's  need.     We  know 

The  mystic  cable*  sank  too  deep 

For  surface  storm  or  stress  to  strain, 

Or  from  his  answering  heart  to  keep 
The  spark  from  flashing  back  again ! 

135  Think  of  the  thousand  mellow  rhymes,* 
The  pure  idyllic  passion-flowers, 

Wherewith,  in  far-gone,  happier  times, 
He  garlanded  this  South  of  ours. 

Provengal-like,*  he  wandered  long, 
And  sang  at  many  a  stranger's  board, 
Yet  'twas  Virginia's*  name  that  poured 

The  tenderest  pathos  through  his  song. 

We  owe  the  Poet  praise  and  tears, 

Whose  ringing  ballad*  sends  the  brave, 
45  Bold  Stuart*  riding  down  the  years— 

What  have  we  given  him  ?    Just  a  grave ! 


122         THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


THERE'LL  COME  A  DAY. 

There'll  come  a  day  when  the  supremest  splendor 

Of  earth  or  sky  or  sea, 
Whate'er  their  miracles,  sublime  or  tender, 
150     Will  wake  no  joy  in  me. 

There'll  come  a  day  when  all  the  aspiration, 

Now  with  such  fervor  fraught 
As  lifts  to  heights  of  breathless  exaltation, 

Will  seem  a  thing  of  naught. 

155  There'll  come  a  day  when  riches,  honor,  glory, 

Music  and  song  and  art, 
Will  look  like  puppets  in  a  worn-out  story, 
Where  each  has  played  his  part. 

There'll  come  a  day  when  human  love,  the  sweetest 
160     Gift  that  includes  the  whole 

Of  God's  grand  giving — sovereignest,  completest — 
Shall  fail  to  fill  my  soul. 

There'll  come  a  day — I  shall  not  care  how  passes 

The  cloud  across  my  sight, 
165 If  only,  lark-like,  from  earth's  nested  grasses, 
I  spring  to  meet  its  light. 


FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOR. 
(1822-1874.) 

Very  little  is  known  concerning  Francis  Ticknor. 
He  was  a  quiet,  hard-working  country  physician,  whose 
productions  were  seen  very  frequently  in  Southern 
magazines  of  the  war  period;  but  his  poems  did  not 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.         123 

receive  wide  notice  until  they  were  collected  in  a  well- 
edited  volume  (1879),  with  an  introduction  by  Paul 
Hamilton  Hayne.  Ticknor  was  a  native  of  Georgia, 
studied  medicine  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  and 
practiced  his  profession  near  Columbus,  Georgia. 
There  is  no  small  amount  of  earnestness  and  sincerity 
in  all  his  work,  and  a  real  lyric  quality  that  caused 
Hayne  to  say  that  he  was  "one  of  the  truest  and  sweet 
est  lyric  poets  this  country  has  yet  produced." 


LITTLE  GIFFEN.* 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire. 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire, 
Smitten  of  grapeshot  and  gangrene, 
Eighteenth  battle  and  he  sixteen — 
5  Specter  such  as  you  seldom  see, 
Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 

"Take  him  and  welcome,"  the  surgeon  said ; 
"Not  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead !" 
So  we  took  him  and  brought  him  where 
10  The  balm  was  sweet  in  our  summer  air ; 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed ; 
Utter  Lazarus,*  heel  to  head! 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated  breath, 
Skeleton  boy  against  skeleton  death ! 
15  Months  of  torture,  how  many  such ! 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch, — 
And  still  a  glint  in  the  steel-blue  eye 
Told  of  a  spirit  that  wouldn't  die, 

And  didn't!     Nay!  more!  in  death's  despite 
20  The  crippled  skeleton  learned  to  write — 


124         THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

"Dear  Mother!"  at  first,  of  course,  and  then 
''Dear  Captain !"  inquiring  about  the  men. 
Captain's  answer:  "Of  eighty  and  five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive." ' 

25  "Johnston*  pressed  at  the  front,"  they  say;— 
Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away ! 
A^tear,  his  first,  as  he  bade  good-by, 
Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye. 
"I'll  write,  if  spared !"     There  was  news  of  fight, 
5  But  none  of  Giffen — he  did  not  write ! 

I  sometimes  fancy  that  were  I  King 
Of  the  courtly  Knights  of  Arthur's  ring,* 
With  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  in  mine'  ear 
And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 
35  I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee — 
The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry — 
For  Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee. 


VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY.* 

The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race 

That,  since  the  days  of  old, 
40  Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold  ; 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

That,  rarely  hating  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Raleigh*  round  the  land, 

With  Smith*  around  the  seas. 

Who  climbed  the  blue  embattled  hills 

Against  uncounted  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose ; 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.         125 

50  Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  happy  homes 
With  loveliness  and  worth ! 

We  thought  they  slept ! — the  men  who  kept 
55       The  names  of  noble  sires, 

And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil  fires ! 
But  aye  the  Golden  Horseshoe  Knights* 

Their  Old  Dominion  keep, 
60  Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 
But  not  a  knight  asleep. 


JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON. 
(1823-1873.) 

We  hear  little  to-day  of  John  Reuben  Thompson, 
although  during  this  period  he  was  perhaps  the  best- 
known  occasional  poet  in  the  South.  Perhaps  his 
poems  were  so  timely  in  their  own  day  that  they  do  not 
fit  these  times.  He  was  born  at  Richmond,  Virginia, 
and  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Virginia.  In 
1847  ne  became  editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger  and  held  the  position  for  twelve  years.  In  1863 
he  went  to  England,  and  during  the  years  spent  there 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  English  magazines.  He 
was  for  some  time  literary  editor  of  the  New  York 
Evening  Post.  As  a  lecturer  and  critic  he  won  con 
siderable  notice,  while  his  poems  were  highly  popular 
in  their  day. 


126         THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


Music  IN  CAMP.* 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain, 
Where  Rappahannock's*  waters 

Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 
Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

5  The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure; 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 
Slept  in  its  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew  it  made 
10       No  forest  leaf  to  quiver, 

And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 
Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now,  where  circling  hills  looked  down 

With  cannon  grimly  planted, 
15  O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 
The  golden  sunset  slanted. 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain — now  rich,  now  tender ; 
The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 
20       With  day's  departing  splendor. 

A  Federal  band,  which,  eve  and  morn, 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up,  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

25  Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks, 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "Yanks," 
And  one  was  gray  with  "Rebels." 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          127 

Then  all  was  still,  and  then  the  band, 
With  movement  light  and  tricksy, 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream  with  burnished  glow 

Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 
85  But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 
With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 

The  trumpets  pealed  sonorous, 
And  "Yankee  Doodle"  was  the  strain 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew, 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  Boys  in  Blue 

Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 

5  And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot ; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang — 
There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood 
Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles ; 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees"  stood, 
And  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 
That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
5  So  deeply  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  had  stirred 
The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue,  or  Gray,  the  soldier  sees, 
As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 


128         THREE  CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

The  cottage  'neath  the  live  oak  trees, 
60      The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold,  or  warm,  his  native  skies 
Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him ; 

Seen  through  the  tear  mist  in  his  eyes, 
His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

65  As  fades  the  iris*  after  rain 
In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished,  as  the  strain 
And  daylight  died  together. 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art, 
70       Expressed  in  simplest  numbers, 
Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 
Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  music  shines, 

That  bright  celestial  creature, 
75  Who  still,  'mid  war's  embattled  lines, 
Gave  this  one  touch  of  Nature.* 


THE  BATTLE  RAINBOW.* 

The  warm,  weary  day  was  departing— the  smile 

Of  the  sunset  gave  token  the  tempest  had  ceased, 
And  the  lightning  yet  fitfully  gleamed  for  a  while 
80       On  the  cloud  that  sank  sullen  and  dark  in  the  east. 

There  our  army,  awaiting  the  terrible  fight 

Of  the  morrow,  lay  hopeful  and  watching  and 

still, 
Where  their  tents  all  the  region  had  sprinkled  with 

white, 
From  river  to  river,  o'er  meadow  and  hill. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  129 

85  While  above  them  the  fierce  cannonade  of  the  sky 
Blazed  and  burst  from  the  vapors  that  muffled  the 

sun, 

Their  "counterfeit  clamors"  gave  forth  no  reply, 
And  slept  till  the  battle  the  charge  in  each  gun. 

When  lo,  on  the  cloud,  a  miraculous  thing ! 
00       Broke  in  beauty  the  rainbow  our  host  to  enfold ; 
The  center  o'erspread  by  its  arch,  and  each  wing 
Suffused  with  its  azure  and  crimson  and  gold. 

Blest  omen  of  victory,  symbol  divine 

Of  peace  after  tumult,  repose  after  pain; 
95  How  sweet  and  how  glowing  with  promise  the  sign 
To  eyes  that  should  never  behold  it  again ! 

For  the  fierce  flame  of  war  on  the  morrow  flashed 

out, 

And  its  thunder  peals  filled  all  the  tremulous  air : 
Over  slipp'ry  intrenchment  and  reddened  redoubt* 
Rang  the  wild  cheer  of  triumph,  the  cry  of  de 
spair. 

Then  a  long  week  of  glory  and  agony  came — 
Of  mute  supplication  and  yearning  and  dread ; 

When  day  unto  day*  gave  the  record  of  fame, 
And  night  unto  night  gave  the  list  of  its  dead. 

105We  had  triumphed— the  foe  had  fled  back  to  his 

ships, 

His  standard  in  rags  and  his  legions  a  wreck- 
But  alas !  the  stark  faces  and  colorless  lips 

Of  our  loved  ones   gave  triumph's   rejoicing  a 
check. 

Not  yet,  O  not  yet,  as  a  sign  of  release, 
110     Had  the  Lord  set  in  mercy  his  bow  in  the  cloud ; 

9 


I$0         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Not  yet  had  the  Comforter  whispered  of  peace 
To  the  hearts  that  around  us  lay  bleeding  and 
bowed. 

But  the  promise  was  given  —  the  beautiful  arc, 

With  its  brilliant  confusion  of  colors  that  spanned 
115  The  sky  on  that  exquisite  eve,  was  the  mark 
Of  the  Infinite  Love  overarchin    the  land  ! 


And  that  Love,  shining  richly  and  full  as  the  day, 
Through  the  tear  drops  that  moisten  each  mar 

tyr's  proud  pall, 
On  the  gloom  of  the  past  the  bright  bow  shall  dis 

play 
Qf  Freedom,  Peace,  Victorv,  bent  over  all. 


JAMES  MATH  EWES  LEG  ARE. 
(1823-1859.) 

Very  little  is  known  about  the  life  of  Legare.  He 
was  born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  early  became 
a  contributor  to  magazines,  patented  several  inventions, 
published  in  1847  ms  Orta-Undis,  and  Other  Poems, 
and  died  at  Aiken,  South  Carolina. 

AHAB  MOHAMMED. 

A  peasant  stood  before  a  king  and  said, 

"My  children  starve;  I  come  to  thee  for  bread." 

On  cushions  soft  and  silken  sat  enthroned 

The   king,    and    looked   on   him    that   prayed   and 

moaned, 

5    Who  cried  again, — "For  bread  I  come  to  thee." 
For  grief,  like  wine,  the  tongue  will  render  free. 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          131 

Then  said  the  prince  with  simple  truth,  "Behold, 
I  sit  on  cushions  silken-soft;  of  gold 
And  wrought  with  skill  the  vessels  which  they  bring 
1  To  fitly  grace  the  banquet  of  a  king. 
But  at  my  gate  the  Mede*  triumphant  beats, 
And  die  for  food  my  people  in  the  streets. 
Yet  no  good  father  hears  his  child  complain 
And  gives  him  stones  for  bread,*  for  alms  disdain. 
5  Come,  thou  and  I  will  sup  together — come." 

The  wondering  courtiers  saw — saw  and  were  dumb  ! 
Then  followed  with  their  eyes  where  Ahab  led 
With  grace  the  humble  guest,  amazed,  to  share  his 
bread. 

Him  half  abashed  the  royal  host  withdrew 
Into  a  room,  the  curtained  doorway  through. 
Silent  behind  the  folds  of  purple  closed, 
In  marble  life  the  statues  stood  disposed; 
From  the  high  ceiling,  perfume  breathing,  hung 
Lamps     rich,    pomegranate-shaped,     and     golden- 
swung. 

25  Gorgeous  the  board  with  massive  metal  shone, 
Gorgeous  with  gems  arose  in  front  a  throne : 
These  through  the  Orient  lattice  saw  the  sun. 
If  gold  there  was,  of  meat  and  bread  was  none 
Save  one  small  loaf;  this  stretched  his  hand  and 

took 

Ahab  Mohammed,  prayed  to  God,  and  broke : 
One  half  his  yearning  nature  bid  him  crave, 
The  other  gladly  to  his  guest  he  gave. 
"I  have  no  more  to  give,"  he  cheerily  said  ; 
''With  thee  I  share  my  only  loaf  of  bread." 

3  Humbly  the  stranger  took  the  offered  crumb, 
Yet  ate  not  of  it,  standing  meek  and  dumb ; 
Then  lifts  his  eyes — the  wondering  Ahab  saw 
His  rags  fall  from  him  as  the  snow  in  thaw. 
Resplendent,  blue,  those  orbs  upon  him  turned  ; 

0  All  Ahab's  soul  within  him  throbbed  and  burned. 


132         THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

"Ahab  Mohammed/'  spoke  the  vision  then, 
"From  this  thou  shalt  be  blessed  among  men. 
QO  forth— thy  gates  the  Mede  bewildered  flees, 
And  Allah  thank  thy  people  on  their  knees. 
45  He  who  gives  somewhat  does  a  worthy  deed, 
Of  him  the  recording  angel  shall  take  heed ; 
But  he  that  halves  all  that  his  house  doth  hold, 
His  deeds  are  more  to  God,  yea,  more  than  finest 
gold." 


To  A  LILY.* 

Go  bow  thy  head  in  gentle  spite, 
50  Thou  lily  white ; 

For  she  who  spies  thee  waving  here, 
With  thee  in  beauty  can  compare 
As  day  with  night. 

Soft  are  thy  leaves  and  white :  her  arms 
55  Boast  whiter  charms. 

Thy  stem  prone  bent  with  loveliness 
Of  maiden  grace  possesseth  less : 
Therein  she  charms. 

Thou  in  thy  lake  dost  see 
60  Thyself:  so  she 

Beholds  her  image  in  her  eyes 
Reflected.     Thus  did  Venus*  rise 
From  out  the  sea. 

Inconsolate,  bloom  not  again, 
65  Thou  rival  vain 

Of  her  whose  charms  have  thine  outdone, 
Whose  purity  might  spot  the  sun, 
And  make  thy  leaf  a  stain. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          1 33 

JAMES  BARRON  HOPE. 
(1827-1887.) 

James  Barron  Hope  was  born  at  Norfolk,  Virginia, 
and,  after  graduating  at  William  and  Mary  College, 
practiced  law.  But  it  seems  that  he  put  more  zeal 
into  his  literary  efforts  than  into  his  legal  ones.  Hav 
ing  served  through  the  Civil  War,  he  became,  like  Lee, 
an  educator,  and  for  some  years  was  superintendent 
of  schools  at  Norfolk.  He  became  known  as  a  poet 
for  occasions,  among  such  being  the  hundredth  anni 
versary  of  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis,  the  two  hun 
dred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  settlement  of 
Jamestown,  the  dedication  of  the  Washington  monu 
ment  at  Richmond,  and  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone 
of  the  Lee  monument  at  Richmond. 

FROM  "ARMS  AND  THE  MAN/'1  * 

The  New  England  Group. 

At  Plymouth  Rock  a  handful  of  brave  souls, 
Full-armed  in  faith,  erected  home  and  shrine, 

And  flourished  where  the  wild  Atlantic  rolls 
Its  pyramids  of  brine. 

5  There  rose  a  manly  race  austere  and  strong, 
On  whom  no  lessons  of  their  day  were  lost, 

aThese  selections  are  used  with  the  permission  of  Mrs. 
Janey  Hope  Marr 


134         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 

Earnest  as  some  conventicle's  deep  song, 
And  keen  as  their  own  frost. 

But  that  shrewd  frost  became  a  friend  to  those 
10       Who  fronted  there  the  Ice  King's  bitter  storm, 
For  see  we  not  that  underneath  the  snows 
The  growing  wheat  keeps  warm? 

Soft  ease  and  silken  opulence  they  spurned; 

From  sands  of  silver,  and  from  emerald  boughs 
15  With  golden  ingots  laden  full,  they  turned 
Like  Pilgrims  under  vows. 

For  them  no  tropic  seas,  no  slumbrous  calms, 

No  rich  abundance  generously  unrolled: 
In  place  of  Cromwell's  proffered  flow'rs  and  palms* 
20       They  chose  the  long-drawn  cold. 

The  more  it  blew,  the  more  they  faced  the  gale ; 

The  more  it  snowed,  the  more  they  would  not 

freeze ; 
And  when  crops  failed  on  sterile  hill  and  vale, 

They  went  to  reap  the  seas  !* 

25  Far  North,  through  wild  and  stormy  brine  they  ran, 

With  hands  a-cold  plucked  Winter  by  the  locks ! 
Masterful  mastered  great  Leviathan* 
And  drove  the  foam  as  flocks ! 

Next  in  their  order  came  the  Middle  Group, 
30       Perchance  less  hardy,  but  as  brave  they  grew, — 
Grew  straight  and  tall,  with  not  a  bend  or  stoop — 
Heart  timber  through  and  through! 

Midway  between  the  ardent  heat  and  cold 

They  spread  abroad,  and  by  a  homely  spell, 
35  The  iron  of  their  axes  changed  to  gold* 
As  fast  the  forests  fell ! 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN    POETRY.          135 

Doing  the  things  they  found  to  do,  we  see 

That  thus  they  drew  a  mighty  empire's  charts, 
And,  working  for  the  present,  took  in  fee 
40       The  future  for  their  marts ! 

And  there  unchallenged  may  the  boast  be  made, 
Although  they  do  not  hold  his  sacred  dust, 

That  Penn,  the  Founder,  never  once  betrayed 
The  simple  Indian's  trust! 

45  To  them  the  genius  which  linked  Silver  Lakes* 

With  the  blue  Ocean  and  the  outer  World, 
And  the  fair  banner,  which  their  commerce  shakes, 
Wise  Clinton's  hand  unfurled. 


The  Southern  Colonies. 

Then  sweeping  down  below  Virginia's  capes, 
co       From  Chesapeake  to  where  Savannah  flows, 
We  find  the  settlers  laughing  'mid  their  grapes 
And  ignorant  of  snows. 

The  fragrant  uppowock*  and  golden  corn 

Spread  far  afield  by  river  and' lagoon, 
55  And  all  the  months  poured  out  from  Plenty's  Horn* 
Were  opulent  as  June. 

Yet  they  had  tragedies  all  dark  and  fell ! 

Lone  Roanoke  Island*  rises  on  the  view, 
And  this  Peninsula  its  tale  could  tell 
co       Of  Opecancanough  !* 

But  when  the  Ocean  thunders  on  the  shore, 
Its  waves,  though  broken,  overflow  the  beach; 

So  here  our  Fathers  on  and  onward  bore 
With  English  laws  and  speech. 


I36         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY^ 

65  Kind  skies  above  them,  underfoot  rich  soils ; 
Silence  and  savage  at  their  presence  fled ;  _ 
This  Giant's  Causeway,,  sacred  through  their  t  Us, 
Resounded  at  their  tread. 

With  ardent  hearts  and  ever-open  hands, 
™       Candid  and  honest,  brave  and  proud  they  grew, 
Their  lives  and  habits  colored  by  fair  hands 
As  skies  give  waters  hue. 

The  race  in  semi-feudal*  state  appears— 

Their  knightly  figures  glow  in  tender  mist, 
"  With  ghostly  pennons  flung  ^from  ghostly  spears 
And  ghostly  hawks  on  wrist. 

Bv  enterprise  and  high  adventure  stirred, 

'From  rude  lunette  and  sentry-guarded  croft 
They  hawked  at  Empire,  and,  as  they  spurred, 
80       Fate's  falcon  soared  aloft! 

Fate's  falcon  soared  aloft  full  strong  and  free, 
With  blood  on  talons,  plumage,  beak,  and  breasi 

Her  shadow  like  a  storm-shade  on  the  sea 
Far-sailing  down  the  West! 

«  Swift  hoofs  clang  out  behind  that  Falcon's  flights- 
Hoofs  shod  with  Golden  Horse  Shoes-  catch  the 

eve ! 

And  as  they  ring,  we  see  the  Forest  Knights— 
The  Cavaliers*  ride  by ! 

FROM  "THE  CHARGE  AT  BALAKLAVA."* 

All  that  morning  they  had  waited, 
»°       As  their  frowning  faces  showed: 
Horses  stamping,  riders  fretting, 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  137 

And  their  teeth  together  setting, 
Not  a  single  sword  blade  wetting, 
As  the  battle  ebbed  and  flowed. 

95  Brightly  gleam  six  hundred  sabres, 

And  the  brazen  trumpets  ring; 
Steeds  are  gathered,  spurs  are  driven, 
And  the  heavens  wildly  riven 
With  a  mad  shout  upward  given, 
Scaring  vultures  on  the  wing. 

And  to-night  the  moon  shall  shudder 

As  she  looks  down  on  the  moor 
Where  the  dead  of  hostile  races 
Slumber,  slaughtered  in  their  places : 
05 All  their  rigid,  ghastly  faces 
Spattered  hideously  with  gore. 


THREE  SUMMER  STUDIES. 

I. 

The  cock  hath  crowed.     I  hear  the  doors  unbarred ; 

Down  to  the  moss-grown  porch  my  way  I  take, 
And  hear,  beside  the  well  within  the  yard, 
110     Full  many  an  ancient,  quacking,  splashing  drake, 
And  gabbling  goose,  and  noisy  brood  hen — all 
Responding  to  yon  strutting  gobbler's  call. 

The  dew  is  thick  upon  the  velvet  grass — 

The  porch  rails  hold  it  in  translucent  drops, 
115 And  as  the  cattle  from  th'  inclosure  pass, 

Each  one,  alternate,  slowly  halts  and  crops 
The  tall,  green  spears,  with  all  their  dewy  load, 
Which  grow  beside  the  well-known  pasture  road. 


138         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

A  lustrous  polish  is  on  all  the  leaves — 
120     The  birds  flit  in  and  out  with  varied  notes — 
The  noisy  swallows  twitter  'neath  the  eaves — 
A  partridge  whistle  through  the  garden  floats. 
While  yonder  gaudy  peacock  harshly  cries, 
As  red  and  gold  flush  all  the  eastern  skies. 

125 Up  comes  the  sun:  through  the  dense  leaves  a  spot 

Of  splendid  light  drinks  up  the  dew ;  the  breeze 
Which  late  made  leafy  music  dies;  the  day  grows 

hot, 
And    slumbrous    sounds    come    from    marauding 

bees  ; 

The  burnished  river  like  a  sword  blade  shines. 
130  Save  where  'tis  shadowed  by  the  solemn  pines. 

II. 

Over  the  farm  is  brooding  silence  now — 

No  reaper's  song,  no  raven's  clangor  harsh, 
No  bleat  of  sheep,  no  distant  low  of  cow, 

No  croak  of  frogs  within  the  spreading  marsh, 
135  No  bragging  cock  from  littered  farmyard  crows — 
The  scene  is  steeped  in  silence  and  repose. 

A  trembling  haze  hangs  over  all  the  fields — 

The  panting  cattle  in  the  river  stand, 
Seeking  the  coolness  which  its  wave  scarce  yields. 
140     It  seems  a  Sabbath  through  the  drowsy  land : 
So  hushed  is  all  beneath  the  Summer's  spell, 
I  pause  and  listen  for  some  faint  church  bell. 

The  leaves  are  motionless,  the  song  bird's  mute — 

The  very  air  seems  somnolent  and  sick : 
145  The  spreading  branches  with  o'erripened  fruit 
Show  in  the  sunshine  all  their  clusters  thick, 
While  now  and  then  a  mellow  apple  falls 
With  a  dull  sound  within  the  orchard's  walls. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  139 


The  sky  has  ,but  one  solitary  cloud, 
150     Like  a  dark  island  in  a  sea  of  light  ; 

The  parching  furrows  'twixt  the  corn  rows  plowed 

Seem  fairly  dancing  in  my  dazzled  sight, 
While  over  yonder  road  a  dusty  haze 
Grows  reddish  purple  in  the  sultry  blaze. 


III. 

155  That  solitary  cloud  grows  dark  and  wide, 

While  distant  thunder  rumbles  in  the  air, 
A  fitful  ripple  breaks  the  river's  tide — 
The  lazy  cattle  are  no  longer  there, 
But  homeward  come  in  long  procession  slow, 
160  With  many  a  bleat  and  many  a  plaintive  low. 

Darker  and  wider  spreading  o'er  the  west 
Advancing  clouds,  each  in  fantastic  form, 

And  mirrored  turrets  on  the  river's  breast 

Tell  in  advance  the  coming  of  a  storm — 
165  Closer  and  brighter  glares  the  lightning's  flash, 

And  louder,  nearer,  sounds  the  thunder's  crash. 

The  air  of  evening  is  intensely  hot, 

The  breeze  feels  heated  as  it  fans  my  brows ; 
Now  sullen  raindrops  patter  down  like  shot, 
170     Strike  in  the  grass,  or  rattle  'mid  the  boughs. 
A  sultry  lull,  and  then  a  gust  again, 
And  now  I  see  the  thick-advancing  rain. 

It  fairly  hisses  as  it  comes  along, 

And  where  it  strikes  bounds  up  again  in  spray 
175 As  if  'twere  dancing  to  the  fitful  song 

Made  by  the  trees,  which  twist  themselves  and 

sway 

In  contest  with  the  wind  which  rises  fast 
Until  the  breeze  becomes  a  furious  blast. 


140         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

And  now  the  sudden,  fitful  storm  has  fled ; 
180     The  clouds  lie  piled  up  in  the  splendid  west, 
In  massive  shadow  tipped  with  purplish  red, 

Crimson  or  gold.     The  scene  is  one  of  rest ; 
And  on  the  bosom  of  yon  still  lagoon 
I  see  the  crescent  of  the  pallid  moon. 


SUNSET  ON  HAMPTON  ROADS.* 

185 Behind  me  purplish  lines  marked  out  the  town; 

Before  me  stretched  the  noble  Roadstead's  tide: 
And  there  I  saw  the  Evening  sun  go  down, 

Casting  a  parting  glory  far  and  wide — 
As  King  who  for  the  cowl  puts  off  his  crown— 
190  So  went  the  sun,  and  left  a  wealth  of  light 
Ere  hidden  by  the  cloister  gates  of  Night. 

Beholding  this,  my  soul  was  stilled  in  prayer ; 

I  understood  how  all  men,  save  the  blind, 
Might  find  religion  in  a  scene  so  fair 
195     And  formulate  a  creed  within  the  mind ; 
See  prophecies  in  clouds,  fates  in  the  air. 
The  skies  flamed  red,  the  murm'ring  waves  were 

hushed — 
"The  conscious  water  saw  its  God  and  blushed." 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  141 


HENRY  TIMROD. 
(1829-1867.) 

The  South  has  contributed  to  the  roll  of  those  that 
have  made  American  literature  worthy  at  least  four 
names:  Poe,  Timrod,  Hayne,  and  Lanier.  The  story 
of  the  life  of  each  one  is  full  of  privations,  afflictions, 
and  great  sorrows ;  but  Timrod's  cup  of  existence  was 
filled  to  the  very  brim  with  vain  endeavors  and  dis 
appointments.  He  was  born  at  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  of  cultured,  versatile,  and  influential  par 
ents,  and  was  educated  in  private  schools  of  Charles 
ton  and  at  the  University  of  Georgia.  He  studied  law, 
but  did  not  practice  it.  For  ten  years  he  was  a  pri 
vate  tutor  near  his  home  city ;  but  in  his  various  litera 
ry  efforts  he  was  far  more  enthusiastic  and  successful. 

He  served  during  a  part  of  the  war  as  a  field  corre 
spondent  for  a  Charleston  paper,  and  in  1864  became 
associate  editor  of  the  South  Carolinian,  published  at 
Columbia.  He  married;  a  son  was  born  to  him;  his 
paper  prospered ;  he  established  a  comfortable  home. 
Within  a  year  General  Sherman's  army  had  destroyed 
his  printing  office;  his  boy  had  died;  and  he  found 
himself  a  destitute  invalid.  He  sold  his  furniture  to 
buy  food  and  medicine.  In  1867  some  friends  sent 
him  to  visit  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  at  Copse  Hill,  Geor 
gia;  but  the  trip  gave  him  no  permanent  relief.  He 
died  shortly  after  his  return  to  Columbia,  in  1867. 

Timrod  was  a  most  sincere  lover  of  Nature,  as  may 
be  seen  in  almost  every  one  of  his  poems;  and  with 


I42         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

this  characteristic  must  be  associated  the  beauty  and 
depth  of  his  thought.  There  is  often  a  real  originality 
in  his  point  of  view.  His  imagination  was  broad  and 
rich,  while  the  sufferings  of  his  own  life  gave  him  a 
mingled  gentleness  and  sadness.  From  a  technical 
standpoint,  too,  Timrod's  verse  is  of  high  excellence. 
Oftentimes  there  is  an  extraordinary  energy  of  expres 
sion,  especially  in  his  war  lyrics.  He  was  something 
of  a  master  in  his  use  of  melodious  words,  and  he 

summoned  to  his   assistance  every  possible   means 

imagery,  figures  of  speech,  archaic  words,  bold  com 
parisons,  rhyme,  and  assonance.  Richard  Henry  Stod- 
dard  speaks  of  him  as  "the  ablest  poet  the  South  has 
yet  produced." 

SONNET.1  * 

Most  men  know  love  but  as  a  part  of  life  ; 
They  hide  it  in  some  corner  of  the  breast, 
Even  from  themselves;  and  only  when  they  rest 

In  the  brief  pauses  of  that  daily  strife, 
5  Wherewith  the  world  might  else  be  not  so  rife, 
They  draw  it  forth  (as  one  draws  forth  a  toy 
To  soothe  some  ardent,  kiss-exacting  boy) 

And  hold  it  up  to  sister,  child,  or  wife. 

Ah  me !  why  may  not  love  and  life  be  one  ? 
Why  walk  we  thus  alone,  when  by  our  side 
Love,  like  a  visible  God,  might  be  our  guide  ? 
How  would  the  marts  grow  noble !  and  the  street, 
Worn  like  a  dungeon  floor  by  weary  feet, 
Seem  then  a  golden  court-way  of  the  Sun ! 

1These  selections  are  used  with  the  special  permission  of 
B.  F.  Johnson  Publishing  Company,  authorized  publishers  of 
Timrod's  poems. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  143 


THE  SUMMER  BOWER.* 

15  It  is  a  place  whither  I  have  often  gone 

For  peace,  and  found  it,  secret,  hushed,  and  cool, 
A  beautiful  recess  in  neighboring  woods. 
Trees  of  the  soberest  hues,  thick-leaved  and  tall, 
Arch  it  o'erhead  and  column  it  around, 
Framing  a  covert,  natural  and  wild, 
Domelike  and  dim ;  though  nowhere  so  inclosed 
But  that  the  gentlest  breezes  reach  the  spot 
Unwearied  and  unweakened.     Sound  is  here 
A  transient  and  unfrequent  visitor; 

25  Yet,  if  the  day  be  calm,  not  often  then, 
Whilst  the  high  pines  in  one  another's  arms 
Sleep,  you  may  sometimes  with  unstartled  ear 
Catch  the  far  fall  of  voices — how  remote 
You  know  not,  and  you  do  not  care  to  know. 
1  The  turf  is  soft  and  green,  but  not  a  flower 
Lights  the  recess,  save  one,  star-shaped  and  bright — 
I  do  not  know  its  name — which  here  and  there 
Gleams  like  a  sapphire  set  in  emerald. 
A  narrow  opening  in  the  branched  roof, 

35  A  single  one,  is  large  enough  to  show, 

With  that  half  glimpse  a  dreamer  loves  so  much. 

The  blue  air  and  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

Thither  I  always  bent  my  idle  steps, 

WThen  griefs  depressed  or  joys  disturbed  my  heart, 

0  And  found  the  calm  I  looked  for,  or  returned 
Strong  with  the  quiet  rapture  in  my  soul. 

But  one  day, 

One  of  those  July  days  when  winds  have  fled 
One  knows  not  whither,  I,  most  sick  in  mind 

5  With  thoughts  that  shall  be  nameless— yet  no  doubt 
Wrong,  or  at  least  unhealthful,  since,  though  dark 
With  gloom  and  touched  with  discontent,  they  had 
No  adequate  excuse  nor  cause  nor  end — 


144         THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

I,  with  these  thoughts,  and  on  this  summer  day, 

50  Entered  the  accustomed  haunt,  and  found  for  once 
No  medicinal  virtue. 

Not  a  leaf 
Stirred    with    the    whispering    welcome    which    I 

sought, 
But  in  a  close  and  humid  atmosphere 

55  Every  fair  plant  and  implicated  bough 

Hung  lax  and  lifeless.     Something  in  the  place, 
Its  utter  stillness,  the  unusual  heat, 
And  some  more  secret  influence,  I  thought, 
Weighed  on  the  sense  like  sin.     Above  I  saw, 

60  Though  not  a  cloud  was  visible  in  heaven, 
The  pallid  sky  looked  through  a  glazed  mist 
Like  a  blue  eye  in  death. 

The  change,   perhaps, 
Was  natural  enough;  my  jaundiced  sight, 

65  The  weather,  and  the  time  explain  it  all : 
Yet  have  I  drawn  a  lesson  from  the  spot, 
And  shrined  it  in  these  verses  for  my  heart. 
Thenceforth  those  tranquil  precincts  I  have  sought 
Not  less,  and  in  all  shades  of  various  moods ; 

70  But  always  shun  to  desecrate  the  spot 
By  vain  repinings,  sickly  sentiments, 
Or  inconclusive  sorrows.     Nature,  though 
Pure  as  she  was  in  Eden  when  her  breath 
Kissed  the  white  brow  of  Eve,  doth  not  refuse, 

75  In  her  own  way  and  with  a  just  reserve, 
To  sympathize  with  human  suffering ; 
But  for  the  pains,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Engendered  of  a  weak,  unquiet  heart, 
She  hath  no  solace ;  and  who  seeks  her  when 

80  These  be  the  troubles  over  which  he  moans, 
Reads  in  her  unreplying  lineaments 
Rebukes  that,  to  the  guilty  consciousness, 
Strike  like  contempt. 


THREE^CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.  145 

CAROLINA.* 
I. 

The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
'  Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm  ; 
0  O !  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A^spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle  hymn, 

Carolina! 

II. 

Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill,* 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 

Carolina ! 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart, 

Carolina ! 

Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields  and  fens  and  meres 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm  with  spears, 

Carolina ! 

III. 

Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead  ; 
Say  how  thy  elder  children  bled, 
10 And  point  to  Eutaw's  battle-bed,* 

Carolina ! 
10 


100 


105 


146         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Tell  how  the  patriot's  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied ; 
How  Rutledge*  ruled  and  Laurens*  died, 
115  Carolina ! 

Cry !  till  thy  summons,  heard  at  last, 
Shall  fall  like  Marion's*  bugle  blast 
Reechoed  from  the  haunted  Past, 
Carolina ! 


IV. 

120 1  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 
Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina ! 

And  now  it  deepens;  slow  and  grand 
125  It  swells,  as  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand, 

Carolina ! 

Shout !  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns  !* 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns ! 
130 It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 
Carolina ! 


V. 

They  will  not  wait  to  hear  thee  call ; 
From  Sachem's  Head*  to  Sumter's  wall 
Resounds  the  voice  of  hut  and  hall, 

135  Carolina! 

No!  than  hast  not  a  stain,  they  say, 
Or  none  save  what  the  battle  day 
Shall  wash  in  seas  of  blood  away, 
Carolina ! 

140  Thy  skirts  indeed  the  foe  may  part, 

Thy  robe  be  pierced  with  sword  and  dart ; 
They  shall  not  touch  thy  noble  heart, 
Carolina ! 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          147 

VI. 

Ere  thou  shalt  own  the  tyrant's  thrall 
15 Ten  times  ten  thousand  men  must  fall; 
Thy  corpse  may  hearken  to  his  call, 

Carolina ! 

When,  by  thy  bier,  in  mournful  throngs 
The  women  chant  thy  mortal  wrongs, 
5 'Twill  be  their  own  funereal  songs, 

Carolina ! 

From  thy  dead  breast  by  ruffians  trod 
No  helpless  child  shall  look  to  God  ; 
All  shall  be  safe  beneath  thy  sod, 

Carolina ! 

VII. 

Girt  with  such  wills  to  do  and  bear, 
Assured  in  right  and  mailed  in  prayer, 
Thou  wilt  not  bow  thee  to  despair, ' 

Carolina ! 

50 Throw  thy  bold  banner  to  the  breeze! 
Front  with  thy  ranks  the  threatening  seas 
Like  thine  own  proud  armorial  trees, 

Carolina ! 

^  Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 
65 And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns; 
Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 
Carolina ! 


THE  COTTON  BOLL.* 

While  I  recline 
At  ease  beneath 
170  This  immemorial  pine, 
Small  sphere ! 

(By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning  here 
And  shown  with  boastful  smiles), 


148         THREE  CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 

I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 
175  Through  which  the  soft  white  fibers  peer, 

That,  with  their  gossamer  bands, 

Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands, 

And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 

Draw  forth  the  folded  strands, 
180  Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider  fled 

Down  the  tall  spear  grass  from  his  swinging  bed, 

Is  scarce  more  fine; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 
185  Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noonday  light, 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and  miles 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As,  in  the  little  boll,  there  lurked  a  spell 
190  Like  that  which,  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem  us  round, 

And  turns  some  city  lane 

Into  the  restless  main, 
195 With  all  his  capes  and  isles! 

Yonder  bird, 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest, 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the  thunder,  where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 
200 And  never  sound  is  heard, 

Unless  at  such  rare  time 

When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest, 

Rings  down  some  golden  chime, 

Sees  not  from  his  high  place 
205  So  vast  a  cirque*  of  summer  space 

As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field, 

Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands, 

Doth  hail  its  earliest  daylight  in  the  beams 

Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns; 
210  And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many  lands, 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.       149 

Is  lost  afar 

Behind  the  crimson  hills  and  purple  lawns 

Of  sunset,  among  plains  which  roll  their  streams 

Against  the  Evening  Star ! 
215  And  lo! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight, 

Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow, 

The  endless  field  is  white  ; 

And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 
220  For  many  a  shining  league  away, 

With  such  accumulated  light 

As  Polar  lands  would  flash  beneath  a  tropic  day ! 

Nor  lack  there  ( for  the  vision  grows, 

And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands — 
225  More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one, 

Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 

Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale, 

The  curious  ointment  of  the  Arabian  talc- 
Beyond  all  mortal  sense 
230  Doth  stretch  my  sight's  horizon,  and  I  see, 

Beneath  its  simple  influence, 

As  if  with  Uriel's  crown,* 

I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun, 

And  looked,  as  Uriel,  down!) 
235  Nor  lack  there  pastures  rich  and  fields  all  green 

With  all  the  common  gifts  of  God, 

For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen 

Weave  Edens  of  the  sod  ; 

Through  lands  which  look  one  sea  of  billowy  gold 
240  Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  way ; 

A  hundred  isles  in  their  embraces  fold 

A  hundred  luminous  bays  ; 

And  through  yon  purple  haze 

Vast    mountains    lift    their    plumed    peaks    cloud- 
crowned  ; 
245  And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  plowman  creeps, 

An  unhewn  forest  girds  them  grandly  round, 

In  whose  dark  shades  a  future  navy  sleeps ! 


150         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Ye  stars,  which,  though  unseen,  yet  with  me  gaze 
Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth ! 

250  Thou  Sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest  rays 
Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth ! 
Ye  Clouds,  that  in  your  temples  in  the  west 
See  nothing  brighter  than  its  humblest  flowers ! 
And  you,  ye  Winds,,  that  on  the  ocean's  breast 

255  Are  kissed  to  coolness  ere  ye  reach  its  bowers! 
Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise, 
And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world  began, 
No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays, 
Or  given  a  home  to  man ! 

260 But  these  are  charms  already  widely  blown! 

His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 

Hath  touched  onr  very  swamps  with  grace, 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 

All  Southern  laurels  bloom ; 
265 The  Poet  of  "The  Woodlands/'*  unto  whom 

Alike  are  known 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trumpet's  tone, 

And  the  soft  west  wind's  sighs ; 

But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 
270 O  land  wherein  all  powers  are  met 

That  bind  a  people's  heart, 

The  world  doth  owe  thee  at  this  day, 

And  which  it  never  can  repay, 

Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own ! 
275  Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 

The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 

That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined 

To  the  mean  channels  of  no  selfish  mart, 

Goes  out  to  every  shore 
280  Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 

That  bear  no  thunders ;  hushes  hungry  lips 

In  alien  lands ; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands ; 

And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          1 

285  Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 

Or  feed  the  cottage  smoke  of  English  homes, 
And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind  ? 
In  offices  like  these  thy  mission  lies, 
My  Country!  and  it  shall  not  end 

290 As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  and  Heaven  bend 
In  blue  above  thee.     Though  thy  foes  be  hard 
And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard 
Thy  hearthstones  as  a  bulwark ;  make  thee  great 
In  white  and  bloodless  state ; 

285  And  haply,  as  the  years  increase — 

Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 
With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages  teach — 
Revive  the  half-dead  dream  of  universal  peace! 
As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 

300 Of  Cornwall,*  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bed 
Of  ocean,  when  a  storm  rolls  overhead, 
Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of  brine 
Above  them,  and  a  mighty  muffled  roar 
Of  winds  and  waters,  yet  toil  calmly  on, 

305  And  split  the  rock,  and  pile  the  massive  ore, 
Or  carve  a  niche  or  shape  the  arched  roof; 
So  I,  as  calmly,  weave  my  woof 
Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 
Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 

310  Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each  dawn 
Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hum 
Of  many  gathering  armies.     Still, 
In  that  we  sometimes  hear, 
Upon  the  Northern  winds,  the  voice  of  woe 

315  Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though  I  know 
The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief  years 
Dry  all  our  tears, 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.     To  thy  will 
Resigned,  O  Lord !  we  cannot  all  forget 

320 That  there  is  much  even  Victory  must  regret. 
And,  therefore,  not  too  long 
From  the  great  burthen  of  our  country's  wrong 


152          THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Delay  our  just  release! 

And,  if  it  may  be,  save 
325 These  sacred  fields  of  peace 

From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood! 

O,  help  us,  Lord !  to  roll  the  crimson  flood 

Back  on  its  course,  and  while  our  banners  wing 

Northward,  strike  with  us !  till  the  Goth*  shall  cling 
330 To  his  own  blasted  altar  stones,  and  crave 

Mercy;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 

The  lenient  future  of  his  fate 

There,   where   some   rotting   ships   and   crumbling 
quays 

Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled  the  West 
ern  seas.* 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 
(1830-1886.) 

The  merit  of  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  was  recognized 
during  his  own  life  to  an  extent  seldom  known  to 
Southern  writers  of  that  day.  He  counted  among  his 
friends  and  admirers  such  men  as  Simms,  Timrod, 
Poe,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  Swin 
burne.  Yet  his  was  a  life  of  privation  and  suffering. 
He  was  born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  of  a  fam 
ily  noted  for  its  political  and  social  influence.  He  was 
educated  at  Charleston  College  and  took  the  Southern 
poet's  usual  course  in  law.  He  early  became  one  of 
the  editors  of  The  Southern  Literary  Gazette,  pub 
lished  at  Charleston,  and  later  editor  of  Russell's 
Magazine,  published  at  the  same  place.  At  this  time 
his  life  was  happy.  He  married  a  woman  of  wonder- 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.       153 

ful  character;  his  fortune  was  ample,  and  he  enjoyed 
his  work. 

When  the  war  began,  he  joined  the  staff  of  Govern 
or  Pickens;  but  ill  health  forced  him  to  resign.  His 
home  and  valuable  library  were  destroyed  in  the  bom 
bardment  of  Charleston;  the  family  silver  and  other 
treasures  were  swept  away  during  Sherman's  march 
to  the  sea ;  and  when  the  war  ended,  he  was  an  invalid, 
almost  penniless,  and  with  a  family  to  support.  He 
removed  to  Copse  Hill,  near  Augusta,  Georgia,  and 
spent  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  a  little  cottage  there. 
His  faithful  wife,  who  had  been  reared  in  luxury,  did 
the  family  cooking  and  washing.  Amidst  such  en 
vironments  he  did  the  greater  part  of  his  best  work. 
From  this  silent,  isolated  place  he  sent  forth  such 
works  as  Legends  and  Lyrics  (1872),  his  introduction 
to  Timrod's  poems.  The  Mountain  of  the  Lovers  and 
Other  Poems  (1875),  Life  of  Robert  Y.  Hayne 
(1878),  Life  of  Hugh  S.  Legarc  (1878),  the  Complete 
Edition  of  1882,  and  many  essays  and  poems  never 
collected. 

Verse  was  to  Hayne  almost  entirely  a  matter  of 
emotions,  and  he  touched  upon  a  great  variety  of  senti 
ments.  He  had  fancy,  smoothness,  simplicity,  and  a 
deep  love  of  Nature  and  of  the  beautiful  in  general. 
In  spite  of  the  amount  of  sentiment  there  is  an  ever- 
present  note  of  manliness  and  encouragement.  Ham 
ilton  Mabie  has  said  of  him :  ''He  touched  the  two 
themes  which  lay  deepest  in  his  heart — love  of  Nature 
and  love  of  the  personal  ideals  of  the  Old  South — 
with  perfect  sincerity,  with  deep  tenderness,  and  with 
lyric  sweetness." 


154         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


LYRIC  OF  AcTioN.1  * 

Tis  the  part  of  a  coward  to  brood 

O'er  the  past  that  is  withered  and  dead: 
What  though  the  heart's  roses  are  ashes  and  dust? 

What  though  the  heart's  music  be  fled  ? 
5       Still  shine  the  grand  heavens  o'erhead, 
Whence  the  voice  of  an  angel  thrills  clear  on  the 

soul, 
"Gird  about  thee  thine  armor,  press  on  to  the  goal !" 

If  the  faults  or  the  crimes  of  thy  youth 

Are  a  burden  too  heavy  to  bear, 
10  What  hope  can  rebloom  on  the  desolate  waste 

Of  a  jealous  and  craven  despair? 

Down,  down  with  the  fetters  of  fear ! 
In  the  strength  of  thy  valor  and  manhood  arise, 
With  the  faith  that  illumes  and  the  will  that  defies. 

15  "Too  late!"  through  God's  infinite  world, 

From  his  throne  to  life's  nethermost  fires, 
"Too  late!"  is  a  phantom  that  flies  at  the  dawn 
Of  the  soul  that  repents  and  aspires. 
If  pure  thou  hast  made  thy  desires, 
20  There's  no  height  the  strong  wings  of  immortals 

may  gain 

Which  in  striving  to  reach  thou  slialt  strive  for  in 
vain. 

Then,  up  to  the  contest  with  fate, 

Unbound  by  the  past,  which  is  dead ! 
What  though  the  heart's  roses  are  ashes  and  dust? 

'These  selections  are  used  with  the  permission  of  Mr.  Wil 
liam  IT.  Hayne  and  the  publishers,  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard 
Co. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          155 

What  though  the  heart's  music  be  fled  ? 

Still  shine  the  fair  heavens  o'erhead ; 
And  sublime  as  the  seraph  who  rules  in  the  sun* 
Beams  the  promise  of  joy  when  the  conflict  is  won! 


AETHRA. 

It  is  a  sweet  tradition,  with  a  soul 
30  Of  tenderest  pathos  !     Hearken,  love ! — for  all 

The  sacred  undercurrents  of  the  heart 

Thrill  to  its  cordial  music: 

Once   a    chief, 

Philantus,  king  of  Sparta,  left  the  stern 
35  And  bleak  defiles  of  his  unfruitful  land — 

Girt  by  a  band  of  eager  colonists — 

To  seek  new  homes  on  far  Italian  plains.* 

Apollo's  oracle*  had  darkly  spoken: 

"Where'er  from  cloudless  skies  a  plenteous  shower 
40  Outpours,  the  Fates  decree  that  ye  should  pause 

And  rear  your  household  deities!" 

Racked  by  doubt, 

Philantus  traversed  with  his  faithful  band 

Full  many  a  bounteous  realm ;  but  still  defeat 
45  Darkened  his  banners,  and  the  strong-walled  towns 

His  desperate  sieges  grimly  laughed  to  scorn ! 

Weighed  down  by  anxious  thoughts,  one  sultry  eve 

The  warrior — his  rude  helmet  cast  aside — 

Rested  his  weary  head  upon  the  lap 
50  Of  his  fair  wife,  who  loved  him  tenderly ; 

And  there  he  drank  a  generous  draught  of  sleep. 

She,  gazing  on  his  brow,  all  worn  with  toil, 

And  his  dark  locks,  which  pain  had  silvered  over 

With  glistening  touches  of  a  frosty  rime, 
55  Wept  on  the  sudden  bitterly;  her  tears 

Fell  o>n  his  face,  and,  wondering,  he  woke. 

"O  blest  art  thou,  my  Ae'thra,*  my  clear  sky" 

He  cried  exultant,  "from  whose  pitying  blue 


*5  THREE  CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

A  heart-rain  falls  to  fertilize  my  fate ! 
60  Lo !  the  deep  riddle's  solved — the  gods  spake  truth !" 

So  the  next  night  he  stormed  Tarentum,*  took 
The  enemy's  host  at  vantage,  and  o'erthrew 
His  mightiest  captains.     Thence  with  kindly  sway 
He  ruled  those  pleasant  regions  he  had  won ; 
65  But  dearer  even  than  his  rich  demesnes 
The  love  of  her  whose  gentle  tears  unlocked 
The  close-shut  mystery  of  the  Oracle ! 


MY  STUDY.* 

This  is  my  world !  within  these  narrow  walls, 
I  own  a  princely  service.     The  hot  care 

70  And  tumult  of  our  frenzied  life  are  here 
But  as  a  ghost  and  echo;  what  befalls 
In  the  far  mart  to  me  is  less  than  naught ; 
I  walk  the  fields  of  quiet  Arcadies,* 
And  wander  by  the  brink  of  hoary  seas, 

75  Calmed  to  the  tendance  of  untroubled  thought; 
Or  if  a  livelier  humor  should  enhance 
The  slow-time  pulse,  'tis  not  for  present  strife. 
The  sordid  zeal  with  which  our  age  is  rife, 
Its  mammon  conflicts  crowned  by  fraud  or  chance, 

80  But  gleamings  of  the  lost,  heroic  life, 

Flashed  through  the  gorgeous  vistas  of  romance. 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD.* 
(At  Night.) 

A  golden  pallor  of  voluptuous  light 

Filled  the  warm  southern  night : 

The  moon,  clear-orbed,  above  the  sylvan  scene 

Moved  like  a  stately  queen, 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY.  157 

So  rife  with  conscious  beauty  all  the  while, 

What  could  she  do  but  smile 

At  her  own  perfect  loveliness  below, 

Glassed  in  the  tranquil  flow 
90  Of  crystal  fountains  and  unruffled  streams? 

Half  lost  in  waking  dreams, 

As  down  the  loneliest  forest  dell  I  strayed, 

Lo  !  from  a  neighboring  glade, 

Flashed  through  the  drifts  of  moonshine,  swiftly 

came 
95  A  fairly  shape  of  flame. 

It  rose  in  dazzling  spirals  overhead,* 

Whence  to  wild  sweetness  wed, 

Poured  marvelous  melodies,  silvery  trill  on  trill ; 

The  very  leaves  grew  still 
100 On  the  charmed  trees  to  hearken;  while  for  me, 

Heart-thrilled  to  ecstasy, 

I  followed — followed  the  bright  shape  that  flew, 

Still  circling  up  the  blue, 

Till  as  a  fountain  that  has  reached  its  height 
105  Falls  back  in  sprays  of  light 

Slowly  dissolved,  so  that  enrapturing  lay 

Divinely  melts  away 

Through  tremulous  spaces  to  a  music  mist, 

Soon  by  the  fitful  breeze 
110  How  gently  kissed 

Into  remote  and  tender  silences. 


THE  PINE'S  MYSTERY.* 
I. 

Listen !  the  somber  foliage  of  the  Pine, 
A  swart  Gitana*  of  the  woodland  trees, 

Is  answering  what  we  may  but  half  divine 
To  those  soft  whispers  of  the  twilight  breeze ! 


158         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

II. 

Passion  and  mystery  murmur  through  the  leaves, 
Passion  and  mystery,  touched  by  deathless  pain. 

Whose  monotone*  of  long,  low  anguish  grieves 
For  something  lost  that  shall  not  live  again ! 


OCTOBER. 

120 The  passionate  summer's  dead!  the  sky's  aglow 

With  roseate  flushes  of  matured  desire, 
The  winds  at  eve  are  musical  and  low. 
As  sweeping  chords  of  a  lamenting  lyre. 
Far  up  among  the  pillared  clouds  of  fire, 
125 Whose  pomp  of  strange  procession  upward  rolls, 
With  gorgeous  blazonry  of  pictured  scrolls, 
To  celebrate  the  summer's  past  renown ; 
Ah,  me !  how  regally  the  heavens  look  down, 
O'ershadowing  beautiful  autumnal  woods 
130  And  harvest  fields  with  hoarded  increase  brown, 
And  deep-toned  majesty  of  golden  floods, 
That  raise  their  solemn  dirges  to  the  sky, 
To  swell  the  purple  pomp  that  floateth  by. 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL. 
(1839-1908.) 

With  the  exception  of  Dixie,  perhaps  the  most  popu 
lar  song  in  the  Confederate  camps  was  Maryland,  My 
Maryland.  Its  author,  James  Ryder  Randall,  of  Balti 
more,  was  a  professor  (1861)  in  Poydras  College, 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          159 

Pointe  Coupee,  Louisiana,  and  it  was  while  at  this 
place  that  he  arose  one  night  from  a  wild  dream  and 
wrote  the  words.  Soon  afterwards  Mrs.  Burton  Har 
rison  set  the  poem  to  an  old  college  melody,  Lauriger 
Horatius.  In  Randall  we  have  another  instance  of  a 
man  made  famous  by  one  song. 


MY   MARYLAND. 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

'  Avenge  the  patriotic  gore* 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle  queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,   my  Maryland! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,   my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's*  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's*  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


l6o         THREE  CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

a5  Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  'panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's*  spirit  for  the  fray, 
30  With  Watson's*  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe*  and  dashing  May,* 
Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Dear  Mother !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
35  Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain — 
"Sic  semper!"*  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 
40  Maryland ! 

Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,   my  Maryland! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
45  Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Walking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 
BO  Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

B5  But  lo!  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          l6l 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal*  toll 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
C5  Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,   my  Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb  ; 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  !* 
She  breathes — she  burns  !  she'll  come  !  she'll 
come ! 

Maryland,   my  Maryland! 


ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN. 
(1839-1886.) 

Father  Ryan  has  been  one  of  the  most  widely  read 
poets  in  America.  His  poems,  like  those  of  Long 
fellow,  create  a  love  for  poetry.  He  was  born  at  Nor 
folk,  Virginia,  but  early  removed  to  St.  Louis.  He 
was  educated  there  and  prepared  for  the  priesthood 
at  Niagara.,  New  York.  After  serving  through  the 
war  as  a  Confederate  chaplain,  he  had  charge  of 
churches  in  various  cities,  among  them  Nashville  and 
Knoxville,  Tennessee ;  Augusta,  Georgia ;  and  Mobile, 
Alabama ;  and  in  all  of  these  places  he  became  known 
ii 


l62         THREE  CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

and  beloved  because  of  his  energetic  support  of  good 
causes,  his  genial  disposition,  and  his  interest  in  young 
men.  At  length,  his  health  having  failed,  he  went  for 
rest  to  tb.^  monastery  near  Louisville,  Kentucky,  and 
there  he  died.  The  most  characteristic  trait  of  his 
verse  is  its  unaffected  sadness.  He  was  not  a  master 
of  the  technical  phases  of  poetry;  but  his  work  is 
always  melodious  and  unlabored.  If  none  of  his 
other  poems  were  known,  The  Conquered  Banner 
would  keep  his  memory  green  for  generations. 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER.1  * 

Furl  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary; 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary ; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
5  And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it ; 
Furl  it,  hide  it — let  it  rest ! 

10  Take  that  Banner  down!  'tis  tattered; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
O !  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ! 
15  Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it ; 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 
Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Selected   from   Father  Ryan's  Poems.     Copyright,   P.   J. 
Kennedy  &  Sons,  New  York. 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.  163 

Furl  that  Banner !  furl  it  sadly ! 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
0  And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 
Swore  it  should  forever  wave  * 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
TilHhat  flag  should  float  forever 
O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave ! 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying'low  ; 
And  that  Banner — it  is  trailing! 
}  While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it ! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it ! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it ! 
But,  O !  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner!     True,  'tis  gory, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
0  And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 
^  Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust ! 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 
Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly ! 
Treat  it  gently— it  is  holy— 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not— unfold  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled ! 


45 


164         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 


NIGHT  THOUGHTS.* 

Some  reckon  their  age  by  years, 

Some  measure  their  life  by  art ; 
But  some  tell  their  days  by  the  flow  of  their  tears, 
55       And  their  life,  by  the  moans  of  their  heart. 

The  dials  of  earth  may  show 

The  length,— not  the  depth  of  years ; 

Few  or  many  they  come,  few  or  many  they  go, 
But  our  time  is  best  measured  by  tears. 

60  Ah !  not  by  the  silver  gray 

That  creeps  through  the  sunny  hair, 
And  not  by  the  scenes  that  we  pass  on  our  way, 
And  not  by  the  furrows  the  fingers  of  care, 

On  forehead  and  face  have  made : 
65       Not  so  do  we  count  our  year ; 

Not  by  the  sun  of  the  earth,  but  the  shade 
Of  our  souls,  and  the  fall  of  our  tears. 

For  the  young  are  ofttimes  old, 

Though  their  brow  be  bright  and  fair ; 
70  While  their  blood  beats  warm,,  their  heart  lies  cold- 
O'er  them  the  springtime,  but  winter  is  there. 

And  the  old  are  ofttimes  young, 

When  their  hair  is  thin  and  white ; 
And  they  sing  in  age,  as  in  youth  they  sung, 
75       And  they  laugh,  for  their  cross  was  light. 

But  bead  by  bead  I  tell 

The  rosary  of  my  years  ; 
From  a  cross  to  a  cross  they  lead,— 'tis  well ! 

And  they're  blest  with  a  blessing  of  tears. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          165 


80 


Better  a  day  of  strife* 

Than  a  century  of  sleep  ; 
Give  me  instead  of  a  long  stream  of  life 

The  tempests  and  tears  of  the  deep. 

A  thousand  joys  may  foam 
85       On  the  billows  of  all  the  years  ; 

But  never  the  foam  brings  the  lone  heart  home  — 
It  reaches  the  haven  through  tears. 


THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE.* 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee ! 
80  Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 

High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Right, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a  beacon  light, 

Led  us  to  victory. 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where  full  long 
95       It  slumbered  peacefully, 

Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle's  song,, 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong, 
Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong, 
Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 

100  Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there, 
And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led  they  would  dare 
To  follow— and  to  die. 

Out  of  its  scabbard !     Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free ; 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 


1 66         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
110  Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  so  grand, 
Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard !     How  we  prayed 
That  sword  might  victor  be ! 

And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
115 And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 

We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 
Of  noble  Robert  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  all  in  vain 

Bright  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee ; 
120  Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 
Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain, 
Proudly  and  peacefully. 


SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC.* 

I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence— 
125     Down  the  dim,  voiceless  valley — alone! 
And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 

Around  me,  save  God's  and  my  own ; 
And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 

As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown ! 

130  Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  voices 

Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win ; 
Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  noises 

That' fretted  my  soul  with  their  din; 
Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  places 
105     Where  I  met  but  the  human — and  sin. 

I  walked  in  the  world  with  the  worldly ; 
I  craved  what  the  world  never  gave ; 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN  POETRY.          167 

And  I  said :  "In  the  world  each  Ideal 

That  shines  like  a  star  on  life's  wave 
140  Is  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  the  Real, 
And  sleeps  like  a  dream  in  a  grave." 

And  still  did  I  pine  for  the  Perfect, 
And  still  found  the  False  with  the  True ; 

I  sought  'mid  the  Human  for  Heaven, 
145     But  caught  a  mere  glimpse  of  its  Blue : 

And  I  toiled  on,  heart-tired  of  the  Human, 
Veiled  even  that  glimpse  from  my  view. 

And  I  toiled  on,  heart-tired  of  the  Human, 

And  I  moaned  'mid  the  mazes  of  men, 
150  Till  I  knelt,  long  ago,  at  an  altar, 

And  I  heard  a  voice  call  me.     Since  then 
I  walked  down  the  Valley  of  Silence 
That  lies  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

Do  you  ask  what  I  found  in  the  Valley  ? 
155     Tis  my  Trysting  Place  with  the  Divine. 
And  I  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy, 

And  above  me  a  voice  said :  "Be  Mine." 
And  there  arose  from  the  depths  of  my  spirit 

An  echo :  "My  heart  shall  be  thine." 

leo Do  you  ask  how  I  live  in  the  Valley? 
I  weep — and  I  dream — and  I  pray. 
But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dewdrops 

That  fall  on  the  roses  in  May; 
And  my  prayer,  like  a  perfume  from  censers, 
165     Ascendeth  to  God  night  and  day. 

In  the  hush  of  the  Valley  of  Silence 
I  dream  all  the  songs  that  I  sing; 

And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  Valley, 
Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing, 


l68        THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

170  That  to  hearts,  like  the  dove  of  the  deluge, 
A  message  of  peace  they  may  bring. 

But  far  on  the  deep  there  are  billows   ' 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach ; 

And  I  have  heard  songs  in  the  Silence 
That  never  shall  float  into  speech ; 

And  I  have  had  dreams  in  the  Valley 
Too  lofty  for  language  to  reach. 

And  I  have  seen  Thoughts  in  the  Valley—*' 

Ah  me !  how  my  spirit  was  stirred  ! 
80 And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  faces, 
Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard : 

They  pass  through  the  Valley  like  virgins,  ' 
Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word ! 

Do  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  Valley, 
Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  care  ? 
It  lieth  afar  between  mountains, 
And  God  and  His  angels  are  there: 
And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  Sorrow, 
And  one  the  bright  mountain  of  Prayer. 


V. 

THE  NEW  SOUTH. 

(1875-1907.) 


GENERAL  SURVEY. 

Rightly  indeed  have  the  modern  conditions  of  the 
Southern  States  been  placed  within  the  conception: 
"The  New  South."  A  vast  change  has  taken  place 
since  1865.  Henry  Grady  has  expressed  it  well:  "The 
old  South  rested  everything  on  slavery  and  agriculture, 
unconscious  that  these  could  neither  give  nor  maintain 
healthy  growth.  The  new  South  presents  a  perfect 
democracy,  the  oligarchs  leading  in  the  popular  move 
ment — a  social  system  compact  and  closely  knitted, 
less  splendid  on  the  surface,  but  stronger  at  the  core — 
a  hundred  farms  for  every  plantation,  fifty  houses  for 
every  palace,  and  a  diversified  industry  that  meets  the 
complex  needs  of  this  complex  age." 

The  talk  of  an  "oppressed  South"  has  now  become 
an  unavailing  weapon,  even  in  the  hands  of  the  un 
scrupulous  politician,  and  in  its  place  has  come  a  reali 
zation  of  the  wonderful  resources,  advantages,  and  un 
doubted  future  greatness  of  the  section.  This  has 
given  an  impetus  to  such  an  industrial  development  as 
can  scarcely  be  paralleled  in  any  other  portion  of  the 
world.  The  cotton,  iron,  lumber,  and  sugar  alone  of 
the  South  seem  destined  to  make  it  a  veritable  treasure 
land. 

With  all  this  there  has  come  a  genuine  revival  in 
literary  work.  Judge  Tourgee  has  said :  "A  foreigner 
studying  our  current  literature  without  knowledge  of 

(170 


17*         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  TOETRY. 

our  history,  and  judging  our  civilization  by  our  fiction, 
would  undoubtedly  conclude  that  the  South  was  the 
seat  of  intellectual  empire  in  America."  Poetry  has 
not  kept  pace  with  fiction ;  but  among  the  leading  verse 
writers  of  to-day  no  small  number  are  from  the  South. 


SIDNEY  LANIER. 
(1842-1881.) 

In  Sidney  Lanier  we  find  a  true  genius.  Year  by 
year  students  of  literature  are  coming  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  realization  of  the  fact  that  in  this  man 
America  had  a  most  original,  deep,  and  melodious 
poet — one  capable  of  bearing  comparison  with  the 
greater  lights  of  the  world's  literature.  He  was  born 
at  Macon,  Georgia,  and  at  the  age  of  fifteen  entered 
Oglethorpe  College,  near  Milledgeville,  Georgia,  an 
institution  which  was  unworthy  of  the  name  "college." 
After  graduating  he  was  appointed  instructor  in  this 
school,  but  had  served  only  a  few  months  when  he 
joined  the  Confederate  army.  He  saw  much  hard 
service,  and  during  the  last  months  of  the  war  was  a 
prisoner  at  Point  Lookout. 

The  privations  suffered  in  this  place  were  so  great 
that  it  was  over  a  year  before  he  was  able  to  work.  In 
1867  he  took  charge  of  a  school  at  Prattville,  Alabama, 
married  Miss  Mary  Day,  of  Macon,  Georgia,  and  con 
tinued  the  literary  work  which  he  had  begun  during 
war  days.  In  1868  the  hardships  of  the  great  strife 
again  began  to  show  their  effect,  and  he  had  to  give 
up  his  school  and  return  to  Macon.  Seeing  that  life 
was  from  this  time  forth  to  be  but  a  struggle  with 
death,  he  determined  to  risk  all  for  the  sake  of  literary 
work.  He  had  inherited  astonishing  musical  ability, 
and  was  at  this  time  probably  the  best  flute  player  in 


174         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

America.  Consequently  in  1873  he  secured  the  posi 
tion  of  first  flute  in  the  Peabody  Symphony  Orchestra 
of  Baltimore,  and  in  that  city  the  busiest  years  of  his 
career  were  spent.  He  became  a  lecturer  in  Johns 
Hopkins  University,  taught  private  classes,  played  sev 
eral  nights  in  each  week,  and  wrote  constantly.  By 
1880  the  battle  for  life  was  an  hourly  struggle.  He 
wrote  his  greatest  poem,  Sunrise,  at  a  time  when  he 
was  too  weak  to  feed  himself  and  while  his  fever  was 
at  one  hundred  and  four.  In  1881  he  was  taken  to  the 
mountains  of  North  Carolina,  first  near  Asheville  and 
later  at  Lynn,  where  on  September  7  the  struggle  was 
ended. 

Among  Lanier's  works  may  be  mentioned  Tiger 
Lilies,  a  novel;  his  volume  of  lectures,  entitled  The 
English  Novel;  Music  and  Poetry;  and  his  valuable 
Science  of  English  Verse.  Of  his  poems,  the  greatest 
perhaps  are  Corn,  The  Hymns  of  the  Marshes,  The 
Song  of  the  Chattahoochee,  and  Sunrise.  Lanier  had 
a  theory  that  time  and  not  accent  is  the  basis  of  poetic 
rhythm.  Every  line  of  verse  thus  divides  itself  into 
measures  equivalent  to  those  in  music.  For  instance, 
he  would  divide  these  lines  of  Tennyson's  into  portions 
of  two  units  each: 


r 

9 

r 

r 

Break, 

Break, 

Break, 

9       0 

)  H 

0 

c  r 

i    r 

On  thy  cold 

gray     stones, 

O        sea! 

By  this  system  he  obtained  symphonic  effects  rarely 
equaled   in  the  poetry   of  any   nation.     The  dignity, 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          175 

emotionalism,  and  sweeping,  majestic  movement  of  his 
lines  lift  the  thought  above  earth  and  compel  notice 
by  the  mode  of  its  utterance.  Here  indeed  is  what 
Hamilton  Wright  Mabie  has  called  "the  large  ele 
mental  movement  of  imagination,  ...  a  movement 
which  has  a  touch  of  tidal  depth  and  reach  in  it,  a  hint 
of  cosmical  power  and  meaning." 

A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER.1* 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 
Clean  forspent,  forspent, 
Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 
Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 
5  But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 
The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him  : 
The  thorn  tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 
When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 
10  And  He  was  well  content. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 

When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him  last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last: 

'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him  last, 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 


THE  MARSHES  OF 

Glooms    of    the    live-oaks,    beautiful-braided    and 

woven 
With   intricate   shades   of  the   vines   that   myriad- 

cloven 

'These  poems  are  used  with  the  permission  of  Mary  D. 
Lanier  and  the  publishers,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


176         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs — 
20  Emerald  twilights, 

Virginal  shy  lights. 
Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of 

vows, 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through  the  green 

colonnades 

Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods,* 
25       Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 

That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand  beach  within 
The  wide  sea  marshes  of  Glynn ; — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noonday  fire, 
Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 
30  Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wavering  arras* 

of  leaves — • 
Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer*  to  the 

soul  that  grieves, 
Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through 

the  wood, 
Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good ; — 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of 

the  vine, 
85  While  the  riotous  noonday  sun  of  the  June  day  long 

did  shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast 

in  mine ; 

But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 
And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the 

West, 
And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood-aisle 

doth  seem 

40  Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream — 
Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the 

soul  of  the  oak,* 

And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  weari 
some  sound  of  the  stroke 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.          177 

Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is 

low., 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I 

know, 
45  And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass 

within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of 

the  marshes  of  Glynn 
Will   work   me   no    fear   like   the    fear   they  have 

wrought  me  of  yore 
When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was 

but  bitterness  sore, 
And   when   terror   and   shrinking   and   dreary   un- 

namable  pain 
0  Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the 

plain — 


O,  now  unfraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn, 

Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of 

the  dawn, 

For  a  mete  and  a  mark 
To  the  forest  dark — 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, 

Thus— with  your  favor— soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
9   (Not   lightly   touching  your   person,   Lord  of   the 

land!) 

Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 

By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 
5  Sinuous    southward    and    sinuous    northward    the 

shimmering  band 

Of  the  sand  beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to 
the  folds  of  the  land. 

12 


178         THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Inward  and  outward  to  northward  and  southward 

the  beach-lines  linger  and  curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  fol 
lows  the  firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 
Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again  into 

sight, 
70  Softly  the  sand  beach  wavers  away  to  a  aim  gray 

looping  of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the 

woods  stands  high  ? 
The  world  lies  east :  how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the 

sea  and  the  sky! 
A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh  grass,  waist-high, 

broad  in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a 

light  or  a  shade, 

75  Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 

O,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal 

sea? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion 

of  sin, 
80  By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing 
withholding  and  free 

Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  your 
selves  to  the  sea ! 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  ram 
and  the  sun, 

Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic*  man  who  hath 

mightily  won 
85  God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain 

And   sight  out  of  blindness   and  purity   out 
stain. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          179 


As  the   marsh  hen  secretly  builds  on   the   waterv 

sod,* 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of 

God: 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh  hen 

flies 
0  In  the  freedom  that  fills  all   the  space   'twixt  the 

marsh  and  the  skies : 
By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh  grass  sends  in  the 

sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of 

God: 
O,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness 

within 
The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of 

Glynn. 


05  And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh :  lo,  out  of  his 

plenty  the  sea 
Pours  fast :  full  soon  the  time  of  the  floodtide  must 

be: 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and   about  through   the   intricate   channels 

that  flow 
ioo  Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks 

and  the  low-lying  lanes, 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun  !* 
The  creeks  overflow:  a  thousand  rivulets  run 
Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod ;  the  blades  of  the  marsh 

grass  stir; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward 

whir ; 


l8o         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


Passeth,  and  all  is  still;  and  the  currents  cease  to 

run; 
110  And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be ! 

The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 

The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height : 

"'And  now  from8thf Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters 

of  sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men. 
But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 
The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep? 
120  And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below 

when  the  tide  comes  in 

On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvelous 
marshes  of  Glynn. 


SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE." 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham,* 
Down  the  valleys  of  Hall,* 
T  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
125  Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall. 

Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plant 
130     Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  clown  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried,  Abide,  abide* 
125  The  willful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.          181 

The  laving  laurels  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said,  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed,  Abide ,  abide, 
140     Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
145  pajr  tajes  0£  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 
150     Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hail. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  white  quartz   shone,  and  the  smooth  brook- 
stone 

155  Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
— Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 
160     In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  O,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  O,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
165  Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 

Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 


l82         THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
170     Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER. 
(1845-1903.) 

John  Henry  Boner  was  born  at  Salem,  North  Caro 
lina.  He  edited  papers  at  Salem  and  at  Asheville, 
and,  entering  politics,  became  chief  clerk  of  the  North 
Carolina  House  of  Representatives.  In  1887  he  re 
moved  to  New  York  City  and  took  up  literary  work. 
Much  of  his  work  has  a  distinctly  Southern  flavor. 

POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM.* 

Here  lived  the  soul  enchanted 

By  melody  of  song; 
Here  dwelt  the  spirit  haunted 

By  a  demoniac  throng; 
5  Here  sang  the  lips  elated; 
Here  grief  and  death  were  sated ; 
Here  loved  and  here  unmated 

Was  he,  so  frail,  so  strong. 

Here  wintry  winds  and  cheerless* 
10       The  dying  firelight  blew, 

While  he  whose  song  was  peerless 

Dreamed  the  drear  midnight  through, 
And  from  dull  embers  chilling 
Crept  shadows  darkly  filling 
15  The  silent  place,  and  thrilling 
His  fancy  as  they  grew. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          183 

Here,  with  brow  bared  to  heaven, 

In  starry  night  he  stood, 
With  the  lost  star  of  seven* 
20       Feeling  sad  brotherhood. 
Here  in  the  sobbing  showers 
Of  dark  autumnal  hours 
He  heard  suspected  powers* 

Shriek  through  the  stormy  wood. 


25  From  visions  of  Apollo* 

And  of  Astarte's*  bliss, 
He  gazed  into  the  hollow 

And  hopeless  vale  of  Dis;* 
And  though  earth  were  surrounded 
30  By  heaven,  it  still  was  mounded 
With  graves.     His  soul  had  sounded 
The  dolorous  abyss. 


Proud,  mad,  but  not  defiant,* 

He  touched  at  heaven  and  hell. 
85  Fate  found  a  rare  soul  pliant 
And  rung  her  changes  well. 
Alternately  his  lyre, 
Stranded  with  strings  of  fire, 
Led  earth's  most  happy  choir 
40       Or  flashed  with  IsrafeL* 


No  singer  of  old  story 

Luting  accustomed  lays, 
No  harper  for  new  glory, 

No  mendicant  for  praise, 
He  struck  high  chords  and  splendid. 
Wherein  were  fiercely  blended 
Tones  that  unfinished  ended 

With  his  unfinished  days. 


184      THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

Here  through  this  lowly  portal, 
50       Made  sacred  by  his  name, 
Unheralded  immortal 

The  mortal  went  and  came. 
And  fate  that  then  denied  him, 
And  envy  that  decried  him, 
55  And  malice  that  belied  him,* 
Have  cenotaphed  his  fame. 


THE  LIGHT'OOD  FiRE.1  * 

When  wintry  days  are  dark  and  drear 
And  all  the  forest  ways  grow  still. 

When  gray  snow-laden  clouds  appear 
Along  the  bleak  horizon  hill, 

When  cattle  all  are  snugly  penned 
And  sheep  go  huddling  close  together, 

When  steady  streams  of  smoke  ascend 

From  farmhouse  chimneys — in  such  weather 
Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  great  log  house,  a  great  hearthstone, 
A  cheering  pipe  of  cob  or  brier, 
And  a  red,  leaping  light'ood  fire. 


When  dreary  day  draws  to  a  close 
70       And  all  the  silent  land  is  dark, 

When  Boreas*  down  the  chimney  blows 

And  sparks  fly  from  the  crackling  bark, 
When  limbs  are  bent  with  snow  or  sleet 
And  owls  hoot  from  the  hollow  tree, 
75  With  hounds  asleep  about  your  feet, 
Then  is  the  time  for  reverie. 

'From    Whispering  Pines,   published  by   Brentano's,   New 
York. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.       185 

Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  hospitable  wide  hearthstone, 
A  cheering  pipe  of  cob  or  brier, 
J       And  a  red,  rousing  light'ood  fire. 


JOHN  BANISTER  TABB. 
0 


John  Banister  Tabb  was  born  in  Amelia  County, 
Virginia.  He  served  in  the  Confederate  army,  and 
was  a  prisoner  with  Sidney  Lanier  at  Point  Lookout. 
He  became  a  Catholic  priest  in  1884,  and  soon  after 
wards  was  made  professor  of  English  literature  in 
St.  Charles  College,  Maryland.  His  lyrics  have  re 
ceived  wide  notice. 


THE  HALF-RING  MooN.1 

Over  the  sea,  over  the  sea, 

My  love  he  is  gone  to  a  far  countrie ; 

But  he  brake  a  golden  ring  with  me 
The  pledge  of  his  faith  to  be. 

5  Over  the  sea,  over  the  sea,, 

He  comes  no  more  from  the  far  countrie; 
But  at  night,  where  the  new  moon  loved  to  be, 
Hangs  the  half  of  a  ring  for  me. 

'These  selections  are  from  Poems  by  John  B.  Tabb.  By 
permission  of  the  author  and  the  publishers,  Small,  Maynard 
&  Co. 


1 86         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


MY  STAR. 

Since  the  dewdrop  holds  the  star 
10       The  long  night  through, 
Perchance  the  satellite  afar 
Reflects  the  dew. 

And  while  thine  image  in  my  heart 

Doth  steadfast  shine, 
15  There,  haply,  in  thy  heaven  apart 
Thou  keepesi  mine. 


GEORGE  HERBERT  SASS. 
(1845-1908.) 

Born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  George  Herbert 
Sass  was  educated  at  the  College  of  Charleston,  where 
he  graduated  in  1867.  He  early  began  to  contribute 
verse  to  the  periodicals,,  under  the  name  "Barton 
Grey;"  but  his  poems  were  not  collected  until  1904. 
Doubtless  the  best-known  lines  in  this  volume,  The 
Heart's  Quest — A  Book  of  Verses,  are  those  entitled 
In  a  King-Cambyscs  Vein. 

IN  A  KING-CAMBYSES  VEIN.1 

Cambyses,  King  of  the  Persians, 
Sat  with  his  lords  at  play 

iprom  The  Heart's  Quest — A  Book  of  Verses.  By  Barton 
Grey.  Copyright,  1904,  by  George  Herbert  Sass.  Used  by 
permission  of  the  author. 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          187 

Where  the  shades  of  the  broad  plane-branches 
Slanted  athwart  the  way. 

5  And  he  listened  and  heard  Prexaspes 

Tell  to  his  fellows  there 
Of  a  Bactrian  bowman's  prowess 
And  skill  beyond  compare. 

And  the  heart  of  the  King  was  bitter, 
10      And  he  turned  and  said  to  him : 
"Dost  see  on  the  greensward  yonder 
That  plane-tree's  slender  limb? 

"It  stands  far  off  in  the  gloaming — 

Dost  think  thy  Bactrian  could 
r>  With  a  single  shaft  unerring 

Smite  through  that  slender  wood  ?" 

"But  nay/'  then  said  Prexaspes, 

"Nor  ever  a  mortal  man 
Since  the  days  when  Nimrod  hunted 

Where  great  Euphrates  ran." 

Then  Cambyses,  son  of  Cyrus, 

Looked,  and  before  him  there 
Meres,  the  King's  cupbearer, 

Stood  where  the  wine  flowed  clear. 

25  Meres,  the  King's  cupbearer, 

Prexaspes'  only  son, 
And  the  heart  of  the  King  was  hardened, 
And  the  will  of  the  King  was  done. 

And  he  said :  "Bind  Meres  yonder 
To  the  plane-tree's  slender  stem, 

And  give  me  yon  sheaf  of  arrows 
And  the  bow  that  lies  by  them." 


1 88         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

And  so,  when  the  guards  had  bound  him, 

He  drew  the  shaft  to  the  head; 
85  "Give  heed!  give  heed,  Prexaspes, 
I  aim  for  the  heart !"  he  said. 

Sharp  through  the  twilight  stillness 
Echoed  the  steel  bow's  twang; 

Loud  through  the  twilight  stillness 
The  courtiers'  plaudits  rang. 

And  the  head  of  the  boy  drooped  downward, 
And  the  quivering  shaft  stood  still; 

And  the  King  said :  "O,  Prexaspes, 
Match  I  thy  Bactrian's  skill  ?" 

45  Then  low  before  Cambyses 

The  Satrap  bowed  his  head — 
"O,  great  King,  live  forever ! 
Thou  hast  cleft  the  heart !"  he  said. 


CARLYLE  M' KIN  LEY. 
(1847-1904.) 

Carlyle  McKinley  was  born  at  Newnan,  Georgia, 
and  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Georgia.  After 
serving  in  the  Confederate  army  until  the  close  of 
the  Civil  War,  he  entered  the  Southern  Presbyterian 
Theological  Seminary  at  Columbia,  South  Carolina, 
where  he  graduated  in  1874.  During  the  next  year 
he  became  a  member  of  the  staff  of  the  Charleston 
News  and  Courier,  with  which  paper  he  was  connected 
at  the  time  of  his  death.  Selections  from  the  Poems  of 
Carlyle  McKinley  was  published  in  1904. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.          189 


SAPELO.1  * 

Far  from  thy  shores,  enchanted  isle, 
To-night  I  claim  a  brief  surcease 

From  toil  and  pain,  to  dream  awhile 
Of  thy  still  peace — 

6  To  wander  on  thy  shining  strand, 

And  lose  awhile  life's  troubled  flow; 
Its  tumults  die  upon  thy  sand, 
Blest  Sapelo. 

The  sun  is  setting  in  the  west ; 
10       The  last  light  fades  on  land  and  sea ; 
The  silence  woos  all  things  to  rest — 
And  wooeth  me. 

So  here  I  lie,  with  half-closed  eye, 

Careless,  without  one  vexing  thought, 
15  While  cool  uncounted  hours  drift  by 
In  dreamy  sort. 

And  ever,  sweet  thoughts  without  words, 

The  shadows  of  old  memories, 
Rise  up  and  float  away,  as  birds 
20       Float  down  the  skies. 

In  dreams  I  see  the  live-oak  groves ; 

In  dreams  I  hear  the  curlews  cry, 
Or  watch  the  little  mourning  doves 

Speed  softly  by. 

25  I  hear  the  surf  beat  on  the  sands, 

And  murmurous  voices  from  the  sea ; 

1From  Selections  from   the  Poems  of  Carlyle  McKinley, 
1904. 


190         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

The  wanton  waves  toss  their  white  hands, 
And  beckon  me.* 

The  waves  are  murmuring  on  the  beach, 
5       A  soft  wind  whispers  in  the  palm ; 
There  is  no  sound  of  ruder  speech 
To  mar  the  calm. 

The  happy  sun  comes  up  once  more 
Above  the  woods  I  know  so  well; 

The  rosy  heaven  from  shore  to  shore 
Glows  like  a  shell. 

I  see  the  great  old  trees  and  tall, 

Sheeted  with  tangled  vines  that  sweep 
From  limb  to  limb — a  leafy  pall, 
40       Where  shadows  sleep. 

The  long  moss  waves  in  every  breeze, 
Like  tattered  banners,  old  and  gray; 

And  sigh  and  sigh  the  old,  old  trees 
All  night,  all  day. 

5  With  flower  and  fruit  at  once  arrayed, 
The  orange  groves  are  passing  fair, 
As  though  all  seasons  loved  such  shade 
And  lingered  there.* 

The  turning  tide  runs  slowly  out ; 

T  hear  the  marsh  birds  calling  shrill  ; 
The  toiling  oarsmen's  song  and  shout 

Come  to  me  still. 

I  hear  their  boat  songs  through  the  night ; 

I  think  it  is  my  heart  that  hears 
66  The  old  songs  sounding  yet,  despite 
These  long,  long  years. 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          191 

White  clouds  are  drifting  out  to  sea-, 

Like  clouds  the  great  ships  come  and  go, 
As  strange,  and  white,  and  silently, 
10      As  soft  and  slow. 

From  far-off  lands,  like  tired  things, 
They  wander  hither  o'er  the  deep. 

Here  all  things  rest,  they  fold  their  wings 
And   fall  asleep.* 


WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON. 
(1848-        .) 

Will  Henry  Thompson  was  born  at  Calhoun,  Geor 
gia,  and  while  yet  a  boy  entered  the  Confederate  army 
and  served  until  the  close  of  the  Civil  War.  In  1868 
he  removed  to  Crawfordsville,  Indiana,  and  entered 
into  a  law  partnership  with  his  brother,  the  well- 
known  writer,  Maurice  Thompson.  He  removed  to 
Seattle,  Washington,  in  1889.  He  is  distinguished  as 
an  orator,  and  has  shown  considerable  ability  in  his 
vigorous  and  often  vivid  verse. 

THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG.1  * 

A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field, 

The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield. 

Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed? 
5  And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 


*By  permission  of  the  Century  Company,  Publishers. 


192         THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee* 

Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry. 
With  Pickett*  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
10  Of  those  dread  knights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 
A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's*  woods 

And  Chickamauga's*  solitudes, 
15  The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons ! 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 

Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew!* 

A  Khansin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 
Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
20  The  British  squares  at  Waterloo  !* 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper*  led, 
A  thousand  died  where  Garnett*  bled : 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 
25  And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead. 

"Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me !" 
Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee; 

"We  two  together,  come  what  may, 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day !" 
30   (The  reddest  day  in  history.) 

Brave  Tennessee!     In  reckless  way 

Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say : 

"Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag!" 
What  time  she  set  her  battle  flag 
85  Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday.* 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 
Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate? 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          193 

The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
40  And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate. 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet ! 

In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 
45  Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet ! 

Above  the  bayonets  mixed  and  crossed, 

Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 
Receding  through  the  battle  cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 
50  The  death  cry  of  a  nation  lost ! 

The  brave  went  down !     Without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace. 

They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sunburst  break 
55  In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face! 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 
And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand ! 
They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress  of  the  stars, 
60  And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland! 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium ! 

They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 

Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 
65  Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom. 

God  lives  !     He  forged  the  iron  will 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 
God  lives  and  reigns !     He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 
70  Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still ! 

13 


194          THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Fold  up  the  banners !     Smelt  the  guns  ! 

Love  rules !     Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years,* 
75  Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons ! 


ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON. 
(1850-         .) 

Robert  Burns  Wilson  was  born  in  Washington 
County,  Pennsylvania,  but  early  removed  to  Frankfort, 
Kentucky.  There  he  became  an  artist.  His  pictures 
have  attracted  considerable  attention  and  praise.  His 
verse  contributed  to  the  various  American  magazines 
is  smooth  and  musical. 

DEDICATION.1 

The  green  Virginian  hills  were  blithe  in  May, 
And  we  were  plucking  violets — thou  and  I. 
A  transient  gladness  flooded  earth  and  sky ; 

Thy  fading  strength  seemed  to  return  that  day, 
5       And  I  was  mad  with  hope  that  God  would  stay 
Death's  pale  approach — O  !  all  hath  long  passed  by ! 
Long  years !  long  years !  and  now,  I  well  know  why 

Thine  eyes,  quick  rilled  with  tears,  were  turned 
away. 

First  loved ;  first  lost ;  my  mother :  time  must  still 

'These  selections  are  from  Life  and  Love.  Cassell  Pub 
lishing  Company.  By  permission  of  the  author. 


150 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.          195 

Leave  my  soul's  debt  uncanceled.     All  that's  best 

In  me  and  in  my  art  is  thine :  Me-seems 
Even  now  we  walk  a-field.     Through  good  and 

ill 

My  sorrowing  heart  forgets  not,  and  in  dreams 
I  see  thee  in  the  sun-lands  of  the  blest. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WINTER. 

Pierced  by  the  sun's  bright  arrows,  Winter  lies 
With  dabbled  robes  upon  the  blurred  hillside ; 

Fast  runs  the  clear  cold  blood,  in  vain  he  tries 
With  cooling  breath  to  check  the  flowing  tide. 

He  faintly  hears  the  footsteps  of  fair  Spring 
Advancing  through  the  woodland  to  the  dell  ; 

Anon  she  stops  to  hear  the  waters  sing, 

And  call  the  flowers,  that  know  her  voice  full 
well. 

Ah   now  she  smiles  to  see  the  glancing  stream; 

bhe  stirs  the  dead  leaves  with  her  anxious  feet; 
She  stoops  to  plant  the  first  awakening  beam, 

And  woos  the  cold  Earth  with  warm  breathings 
sweet. 

"Ah,  gentle  mistress,  doth  thy  soul  rejoice 
To  find  me  thus  laid  low  ?     So  fair  thou  art ! 

Let  me  but  hear  the  music  of  thy  voice  ; 
Let  me  but  die  upon  thy  pitying  heart. ' 

Soon  endeth  life  for  me.    Thou  wilt  be  blessed  • 
ihe  flowering  fields,  the  budding  trees  be  thine 

Grant  me  the  pillow  of  thy  fragrant  breast  ; 
Then  come,  oblivion,  I  no  more  repine." 


196         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

35  Thus  urged  the  dying  Winter.     She,  the  fair, 

Whose  heart  hath  love,  and  only  love,  to  give. 
Did  quickly  lay  her  full  warm  bosom  bare    ^         ^ 
For  his  cold  cheek,  and  fondly  whispered    Live. 

His  cold  white  lips  close  to  her  heart  she  pressed; 
*°       Her  sighs  were  mingled  with  each  breath  he  drew  ; 
And  when  the  strong  life  faded,  on  her  breast 
Her  own  soft  tears  fell  down  like  heavenly  dew. 

O  ve  sweet  blossoms  of  the  whispering  lea,  _ 

Ye  fair,  frail  children  of  the  woodland  wide, 
45  Ye  are  the  fruit  of  that  dear  love  which  she 
Did  give  to  wounded  Winter  ere  he  died. 

And  some  are  tinted  like  her  eyes  of  blue, 

Some  hold  the  blush  that  on  her  cheek  did  glow, 
Some  from  her  lips  have  caught  their  scarlet  hue, 
™       But  more  still  keep  the  whiteness  of  the  snow. 


1RWIN  RUSSELL. 
(1853-1879.) 

During  his  brief  life  Irwin  Russell  produced  some 
striking  work  along  the  line  of  negro  dialect  verse. 
In  fact,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  realize  the  literary 
value  of  the  negro  character  and  dialect.  He  was 
born  at  Port  Gibson,  Mississippi,  but  early  in  his  child 
hood  his  family  removed  to  St.  Louis,  and  there  in 
the  public  schools  and  in  St.  Louis  University  he  re 
ceived  his  education.  He  studied  law,  but  did  not 
practice  it.  His  work  appeared  first  in  Scribner's  Mag- 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          197 

azine  for  January,  1876,  and  was  well  received.  In 
December,  1878,  he  went  to  New  York  to  engage  in 
literary  work,  but  severe  illness  compelled  him  to 
return  South.  He  went  to  New  Orleans,  suffered  great 
privations,  and  died  there  in  December,  1879.  He 
seemed  to  know  the  very  soul  of  the  old-time  negro, 
and  few  have  equaled  him  in  such  delineations.  Such 
writers  as  Joel  Chandler  Harris  and  Thomas  Nelson 
Page  have  gratefully  acknowledged  their  indebtedness 
to  him. 


CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  IN  THE  QUARTERS.1  * 

When  merry  Christmas  day  is  done, 
And  Christmas  night  is  just  begun ; 
While  clouds  in  slow  procession  drift, 
To  wish  the  moon-man  "Christmas  gift," 
5  Yet  linger  overhead,  to  know 
What  causes  all  the  stir  below — 
At  Uncle  Johnny  Booker's  ball 
The  darkies  hold  high  carnival. 
From  all  the  countryside  they  throng, 

10  With  laughter,  shouts,  and  scraps  of  song — 
Their  whole  deportment  plainly  showing 
That  to  the  Frolic  they  are  going. 
Some  take  the  path  with  shoes  in  hand, 
To  traverse  muddy  bottom  land; 

15  Aristocrats  their  steeds  bestride — 
Four  on  a  mule,  behold  them  ride ! 
And  ten  great  oxen  draw  apace 
The  wagon  from  "de  oder  place," 
With  forty  guests,  whose  conversation 

20  Betokens  glad  anticipation. 

*By  permission  of  the  Century  Company,  Publishers. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


Not  so  with  him  who  drives  :  old  Jim 
Is  sagely  solemn,  hard,  and  grim, 
And  frolics  have  no  joys  for  him. 
He  seldom  speaks  but  to  condemn  —  • 
25  Or  utter  some  wise  apothegm— 

Or  else,  some  crabbed  thought  pursuing, 
Talk  to  his  team,  as  now  he's  doing: 

Come  up  heah,  Star  !    Yee-bawee  ! 

You  alluz  is  a-laggin'  — 
0  Mus'  be  you  think  Fse  dead, 

An'  dis  de  huss  you's  draggin'  — 
You's  'mos'  too  lazy  to  draw  yo'  bref, 
Let  'lone  drawin'  de  waggin. 

Dis  team  —  quit  bel'rin,  sah  ! 

35       De  ladies  don't  submit  'at— 

Dis  team  —  you  ol'  fool  ox, 

You  heah  me  tell  you  quit  'at  ? 
Dis  team's  dcs  like  de  'Nited  States  ! 
Dot's  what  I'se  tryin'  to  git  at  ! 

40  De  people  rides  behin', 

De  pollytishners  haulin'  — 
Sh'u'd  be  a  well-bruk  ox, 
To  foller  dat  ar  callin'  — 
An'  sometimes  nuffin  won't  do  clem  steers 
4r>       But  what  dey  mus'  be  stallin'  ! 

Woo  bahgh  !    Buck-kannon  !*    Yes,  sah, 
Sometimes  dey  will  be  stickin'; 

An'  den,  fits  thing  dey  knows, 

Dey  takes  a  rale  good  lickin'. 
0  De  folks  gits  down  :  an'  den  watch  out 
Fur  hommerin*  an'  kickin'. 

Dey  blows  upon  dey  hands, 
Den  flings  'em  wid  de  nails  up, 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.          199 

Jumps  up  an'  cracks  dey  heels, 
55       An'  pruzently  dey  sails  up, 

An'  makes  dem  oxen  hump  deysef, 
By  twistin'  all  dey  tails  up ! 

In  this  our  age  of  printer's  ink 
'Tis  books  that  show  us  how  to  think* — 
'  The  rule  reversed,  and  set  at  naught, 
That  held  that  books  were  born  of  thought. 
We  form  our  minds  by  pedants'  rules, 
And  all  we  know  is  from  the  schools  ; 
And  when  we  work,  or  when  we  play, 

65  We  do  it  in  an  ordered  way — 

And  Nature's  self  pronounce  a  ban  on, 
Whene'er  she  dares  transgress  a  canon. 
Untrammeled  thus  the  simple  race  is 
That  "wuks  the  craps"  on  cotton  places. 

70  Original  in  act  and  thought, 
Because  unlearned  and  untaught. 
Observe  them  at  their  Christmas  party : 
How  unrestrained  their  mirth — how  hearty ! 
How  many  things  they  say  and  do 
1  That  never  would  occur  to  you ! 
See  B rudder  Brown — whose  saving  grace 
Would  sanctify  a  quarter-race — 
Out  on  the  crowded  floor  advance, 
To  "beg  a  blessin'  on  dis  dance :" 


so  O   Mahsr!   let  dis  gath'rin'  fin'  a'  blessin'   in   yo' 

sight ! 
Don't  jedge  us  hard  fur  what  we  does — you  knows* 

it's  Chrismus  night; 
An'  all  de  balunce  ob  de  yeah  we  does  as  right's  we 

kin. 
Ef  dancin's  wrong,  O  Mahsr !  let  de  time  excuse  de 

sin! 


200        THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

We  labors  in  de  vineya'd,  wukin'  hard  an'  wukin" 

true ; 
85  Now,  shorely  you  won't  notus,  ef  we  eats  a  grape 

or  two, 

An*  takes  a  leetle  holiday — a  leetle  restin'  spell — 
Bekase,  nex'  week,  we'll  start  in  fresh,  an'  labor 

twicet  as  well. 

Remember,  Mahsr— min'   dis,   now— de   sinfulness 

ob  sin 
Is  'pendin'  'pon  de  sperrit  what  we  goes  an'  does  it 

in: 
90  An'  in  a  righchis  frame  ob  min'  we's  gwine  to  dance 

an'  sing, 
A-feelin'  like  King  David,  when  he  cut  de  pigeon 

wing.* 

It  seems  to  me — indeed   it  do — I  mebbe  mout  be 

wrong — 
That  people  raly  ought  to  dance,  when  Chrismus 

comes  along'; 
Des  dance  bekase  dey's  happy — like  de  birds  hops 

in  de  trees, 
95  De  pine-top   riddle   soundin'   to   de  bowin'   ob    de 

breeze. 

We  has  no  ark  to  dance  afore,  like  Isrul's  prophet 

king; 
We  has  no  harp  to  soun'  de  chords,  to  holp  us  out 

to  sing; 
But  'cordin'  to  de  gif's  we  has  we  does  de  bes'  we 

knows ; 
An'  folks  don't  'spise  de  vi'let  flower  bekase  it  ain't 

de  rose. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          2OI 


100  You  bless  us,  please,  sah,  eben  ef  we's  doin'  wrong 

to-night  ; 
Kase  den  we'll  need  de  blessin'  more'n  ef  we's  doin' 

right  ;* 
An'  let  de  blessin'  stay  wid  us,  untel  we  comes  to 

die, 
An'  goes  to  keep  our  Chrismus  wid  dem  sheriffs*  in 

de  sky! 

Yes,  tell  dem  preshis  anguls  we's  a-gwine  to  jine 

'em  soon : 
105 Our  voices  we's  a-trainin'  fur  to  sing  de  glory  tune; 

We's  ready  when  you  wants  us,  an'  it  ain't  no  mat 
ter  when — 

O  Mahsr !  call  yo'  chillen  soon,  an'  take  'em  home ! 
Amen. 

The  rev'rend  man  is  scarcely  through, 

When  all  the  noise  begins  anew, 
110     And  with  such  force  assaults  the  ears, 

That  through  the  din  one  hardly  hears 

Old  fiddling  Josey  "sound  his  A,"* 

Correct  the  pitch,  begin  to  play, 

Stop,  satisfied,  then,  with  the  bow, 
115     Rap  out  the  signal  dancers  know: 

Git  yo'  pardners,  fust  kivattillwn! 

Stomp  yo'  feet,  an'  raise  'em  high; 

Tune  is:  O!  dat  watermillion ! 

Gwine  to  git  to  home  bime  bye." 
120     S'htte  yo'  pardners! — scrape  perlitely — 

Don't  be  bumpin'  gin  de  res' — 

Balance  all! — now,  step  out  rightly; 

Alluz  dance  yo'  lebbel  bes'. 

Fo'wa'd  foah! — whoop  up,  niggers! 
12(5     Back  ag'in! — don't  be  so  slow! — 

Suing  cornahs! — min'  de  figgers! 

When  I  hollers,  den  yo'  go. 


202          THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Top  ladies  cross  ober! 

Hoi'  on,  till  I  takes  a  dram — 

Gemmen  solo! — yes,  I's  sober — 

Cain't  say  how  de  fiddle  am. 

Hands  around! — hoi'  up  yo'  faces, 

Don't  be  lookin'  at  yo'  feet! 

Sluing  yo'  pardncrs  to  yo'  places! 
135     DatYde  way— dat's  hard  to  beat. 

Sides  fo'itfd! — when  you's  ready — 

Make  a  bow  as  low's  you  kin ! 

Swing  acrost  wid  opp'sitc  lady! 

Now  we'll  let  you  swap  ag'in : 
140     Ladies  change! — shet  up  dat  talkin'; 

Do  yo'  talkin'  arter  while ! 

Right  an'  lef ! — don't  want  no  walkin' — 

Make  yo'  steps,  an'  show  yo'  style ! 

And  so  the  "set"  proceeds — its  length 

145     Determined  by  the  dancers'  strength ; 
And  all  agree  to  yield  the  palm 
For  grace  and  skill  to  "Georgy  Sam/'* 
Who  stamps  so  hard,  and  leaps  so  high, 
"Des  watch  him !"  is  the  wond'ring  cry — 

ir,o     «jje  nigger  mus'  be,  fur  a  fac'. 
Own  cousin  to  a  jumpin'-jack !" 
On,  on  the  restless  riddle  sounds, 
Still  chorused  by  the  curs  and  hounds ; 
Dance  after  dance  succeeding  fast, 

155     Till  supper  is  announced  at  last. 

That  scene — but  why  attempt  to  show  it  ? 
The  most  inventive  modern  poet, 
In  fine  new  words  whose  hope  and  trust  is, 
Could  form  no  phrase  to  do  it  justice! 

leo     "When  supper  ends — that  is  not  soon — 
The  fiddle  strikes  the  same  old  tune; 
The  dancers  pound  the  floor  again, 
With  all  they  have  of  might  and  main ; 
Old  gossips,  almost  turning  pale, 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          203 

105     Attend  Aunt  Cassy's  gruesome  tale 
Of  conjurers,  and  ghosts,  and  devils, 
That  in  the  smokehouse  hold  their  revels; 
Each  drowsy  baby  droops  his  head, 
Yet  scorns  the  very  thought  of  bed: 
So  wears  the  night,  and  wears  so  fast, 
All  wonder  when  they  find  it  past, 
And  hear  the  signal  sound  to  go 
From  what  few  cocks  are  left  to  crow. 
Then,  one  and  all,  you  hear  them  shout : 
"Hi!  Booker!  fotch  de  banjo  out, 
An'  gib  us  one  song  'fore  we  goes — 
One  ob  de  berry  bes'  you  knows!" 
Responding  to  the  welcome  call, 
He  takes  the  banjo  from  the  wall, 
And  tunes  the  strings  with  skill  and  care, 
Then  strikes  them  with  a  master's  air, 
And  tells,  in  melody  and  rhyme, 
This  legend  of  the  olden  time : 

Go    'way,    fiddle!    folks    is    tired    o'    hearin'    you 

a-squawkin'. 
185  Keep   silence  fur  yo'  betters !— don't  you  hear  de 

banjo  talkin'  ? 
About  de  'possum's  tail  she's  gwine  to  lecter — ladies, 

listen ! — 
About  de  ha'r  whut  isn't  dar,  an'  why  de  ha'r  is 

missin' : 


"Dar's  gwine  to  be  a  oberflow,"  said  Noah,  lookin' 

solemn — 
Fur  Noah  tuk  the  Herald*  an'  he  read  de  ribber 

column — 
90 An'  so  he  sot  his  hands  to  wuk  a-cl'arin'  timber 

patches, 
An'  'lowed  he's  gwine  to  build  a  boat  to  beat  the 

steamah  Natchez.* 


204         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Ol'  Noah  kep'  a-nailin'  an'  a-chippin'  an'  a-sawin', 
An'   all   de   wicked   neighbors   kep'   a-laughin'   an' 

a-pshawin' ; 
But  Noah  didn't  min'  'em,  knowin'  whut  wuz  gwine 

to  happen : 
195  An'    forty   days   an'    forty   nights   de    rain   it   kep' 

a-drappin'. 

Now,  Noah  had  done  cotched  a  lot  ob  ebry  sort  o' 

beas'es — 
Ob   all   de   shows   a-trabbelin',    it   beat   'em   all  to 

pieces ! 
He  had  a  Morgan*  colt  an'  sebral  head  o'  Jarsey 

cattle — 
An'  druv  'em  'board  de  Ark  as  soon's  he  heered  de 

thunder  rattle. 


200 Den  sech  anoder  fall  ob  rain! — it  come  so  awful 

hebby, 

De  ribber  riz  imimejitly,  an'  busted  troo  de  lebbee ; 
De  people  all  wuz  drowned  out — 'cep'  Noah  an'  de 

critters. 
An'  men  he'd  hired  to  work  de  boat — an'  one  to 

mix  de  bitters.* 

De   ark   she  kep'   a-sailin'   an'   a-sailin'   an'   a-sail- 

in' ;  _ 

205  De  lion  got  his  dander  up,  an'  like  to  bruk  de  paliri' ; 
De  sarpints  hissed ;  de  painters  yelled ;  tell,  whut 

wid  all  de  fussin', 
You  c'u'dn't  hardly  heah  de  mate  a-bossin'  'roun' 

an'  cussin'. 

Now,  Ham,  de  only  nigger  whut  wuz  runnin'  on 

de  packet, 
Got  lonesome  in  de  barber  shop,  an'  c'u'dn't  stan' 

de  racket; 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          205 

210  An'  so,  fur  to  amuse  he-se'f,  he  steamed  some  wood 

an'  bent  it, 

An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made — de  fust  dat  wuz 
invented. 

He  wet  de  ledder,  stretched  it  on ;  made  bridge  an' 

screws  an'  aprin ; 
An'  fitted  in  a  proper  neck — 'twtiz  berry  long  an' 

tap'rin' ; 
He  tuk  some  tin,  an'  twisted  him  a  thimble  fur  to 

ring  it ; 
215  An'  den  de  mighty  question  riz:  how  wuz  he  gwine 

to  string  it? 

De  'possum  had  as  fine  a  tail  as  dis  dat  Fs  a-sing- 
in'; 

De  ha'r's  so  long  an'  thick  an'  strong — des  fit  fur 
banjo-stringin' ; 

Dat  nigger  shaved  'em  off  as  short  as  wash-day- 
dinner  graces; 

An'  sorted  ob  'em  by  de  size,  f'om  little  E's  to 
basses. 

220 He    strung   her,    tuned    her,    struck    a    jig — 'twuz 

"Nebber  min'  de  wedder" — 
She  soun'  like  forty-lebben  bands  a-playin'  all  to- 

gedder ; 
Some  went  to  pattin',  some  to  dancin' :  Noah  called 

de  figgers ; 
An'  Ham  he  sot  an'  knocked  de  tune,  de  happiest 

ob  niggers ! 

Now,  sence  dat  time— it's  mighty  strange — dere  s 

not  de  slightes'  showin' 

225  Ob  any  ha'r  at  all  upon  de  'possum's  tail  a-grow- 
in'; 


206         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

An'  curl's,  too,  dat  nigger's  ways :  his  people  nebber 

los'  em — 
Fur  whar  you  finds  de  nigger — dar's  de  banjo  an' 

de  'possum! 

The  night  is  spent;  and  as  the  day 
Throws  up  the  first  faint  flash  of  gray, 

230     The  guests  pursue  their  homeward  way ; 
And  through  the  field  beyond  the  gin, 
Just  as  the  stars  are  going  in, 
See  vSanta  Claus  departing — grieving — 
His  own  dear  Land  of  Cotton  leaving. 

285     His  work  is  done ;  he  fain  would  rest 
Where  people  know  and  love  him  best. 
He  pauses,  listens,  looks  about  ; 
But  go  he  must :  his  pass  is  out. 
So,  coughing  down  the  rising  tears, 

240     He  climbs  the  fence*  and  disappears. 
And  thus  observes  a  colored  youth 
(The  common  sentiment,  in  sooth)  : 
"O !  what  a  blessin'  'tw'u'd  ha'  been, 
Ef  Santy  had  been  born  a  twin ! 

245     We'd  hab  two  Chrismuses  a  yeah — 
Or  p'r'aps  one  brudder'd  settle  heah!" 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK. 

(1854-      0 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck  was  born  near  Tuscaloosa, 
Alabama,  and  was  educated  at  the  State  University. 
After  a  medical  course  in  New  York  City,  he  re 
turned  to  his  native  town  and  has  lived  there  since. 
He  is  a  writer  of  very  graceful  verse,  and  some  of 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

his  pieces,  /  Wonder  What  Maud  Will  Say,  A  Knot 
of  Blue,  and  Bessie  Brown,  M.D.,  have  been  exceed 
ingly  popular. 

BESSIE  BROWN,  M.D.1 

'Twas  April  when  she  came  to  town ; 

The  birds  had  come,  the  bees  were  swarming. 
Her  name,  she  said,  was  Doctor  Brown: 
^  I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  charming. 
5  She  took  a  cottage  tinted  green, 

Where  dewy  roses  loved  to  mingle  ; 
And  on  the  door  next  day  was  seen 

A  dainty  little  shingle. 

Her  hair  was  like  an  amber  wreath; 

Her  hat  was  darker,  to  enhance  it. 
The  violet  eyes  that  glowed  beneath 

Were  brighter  than  her  keenest  lancet. 
The  beauties  of  her  glove  and  gown 
^  The  sweetest  rhyme  would  fail  to  utter, 
5  Ere  she  had  been  a  day  in  town 
The  town  was  in  a  flutter. 

The  gallants  viewed  her  feet  and  hands, 
And  swore  they  never  saw  such  wee  things ; 

The  gossips  met  in  purring  bands 
0      And  tore  her  piecemeal  o'er  the  tea  things. 

The  former  drank  the  Doctor's  health 
With  clinking  cups,  the  gay  carousers ; 

The  latter  watched  her  door  by  stealth, 
Just  like  so  many  mousers. 

>  But  Doctor  Bessie  went  her  way 
Unmindful  of  the  spiteful  cronies, 


'The  poems  given  are  used  by  permission  of  the  author  and 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company,  Publishers. 


208         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

And  drove  her  buggy  every  day 
Behind  a  dashing  pair  of  ponies. 

Her  flower-like  face  so  bright  she  bore, 
30       I  hoped  that  time  might  never  wilt  her. 

The  way  she  tripped  across  the  floor 
Was  better  than  a  philter. 

Her  patients  thronged  the  village  street; 
Her  snowy  slate  was  always  quite  full. 
35  Some  said  her  bitters  tasted  sweet, 

And  some  pronounced  her  pills  delightful. 
'Twas  strange — I  knew  not  what  it  meant — 

She  seemed  a  nymph  from  Eldorado; 
Where'er  she  came,  where'er  she  went, 
40       Grief  lost  its  gloomy  shadow. 

Like  all  the  rest,  I  too  grew  ill ; 

My  aching  heart  there  was  no  quelling. 
I  tremble  at  my  doctor's  bill — 

And  lo !  the  items  still  are  swelling. 
45  The  drugs  I've  drunk  you'd  weep  to  hear! 

They've  quite  enriched  the  fair  concocter, 
And. I'm  a  ruined  man,  I  fear, 

Unless — I  wed  the  Doctor ! 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  FEATHER. 

The  dew  is  on  the  heather, 
50      The  moon  is  in  the  sky, 

And  the  captain's  waving  feather 

Proclaims  the  hour  is  nigh 
When  some  upon  their  horses 

Shall  through  the  battle  ride, 
55  And  some  with  bleeding  corses 
Must  on  the  heather  bide. 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          209 

The  dust  is  on  the  heather. 

The  moon  is  in  the  sky, 
And  about  the  captain's  feather 
60      The  bolts  of  battle  fly ; 

But  hark,  what  sudden  wonder 

Breaks  forth  upon  the  gloom  ? 
It  is  the  cannon's  thunder — 

It  is  the  voice  of  doom ! 

65  The  blood  is  on  the  heather, 

The  night  is  in  the  sky, 
And  the  gallant  captain's  feather 

Shall  wave  no  more  on  high ; 
The  grave  and  holy  brother 
70       To  God  is  saying  mass, 
But  who  shall  tell  his  mother, 
And  who  shall  tell  his  lass? 


THE  GRAPEVINE  SWING. 

When  I  was  a  boy  on  the  old  plantation, 

Down  by  the  deep  bayou, 
The  fairest  spot  of  all  creation, 

Under  the  arching  blue; 
When  the  wind  came  over  the  cotton  and  corn, 

To  the  long  slim  loop  I'd  spring 
With  brown  feet  bare,  and  a  hat  brim  torn, 

And  swing  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

I  dream  and  sigh 

For  the  days  gone  by, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing! 

Out — o'er  the  water  lilies  bonnie  and  bright, 
Back — to  the  moss-grown  tree; 

14 


210         THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

I  shouted  and  laughed  with  a  heart  as  bright 

As  a  wild  rose  tossed  by  the  breeze. 
90  The  mocking  bird  joined  in  my  reckless  glee, 
I  longed  for  no  angel's  wing— 

I  was  just  as  near  heaven  as  I  wanted  to  be 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
95  Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

O  to  be  a  boy 
With  a  heart  full  of  joy, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing ! 


100 


105 


I'm  weary  at  noon,  I'm  weary  at  night, 

I'm  fretted  and  sore  at  heart. 
And  care  is  sowing  my  locks  with  white 

As  I  wend  through  the  fevered  mart. 
I'm  tired  of  the  world,  with  its  pride  and  pomp, 

And  fame  seems  a  worthless  thing. 
I'd  barter  it  all  for  one  day's  romp, 

And  a  swing  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing^ 
Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

I  would  I  were  away 

From  the  world  to-day, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing ! 


PHYLLIS. 

The  singing  of  sweet  Phyllis 
Like  the  silver  laughing  rill  is, 
And  her  breath  is  like  the  lily's 
115  In  the  dawn. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          211 

As  graceful  as  the  dipping 
Summer  swallow  or  the  skipping 
Of  a  lambkin  is  her  tripping 
O'er  the  lawn. 

To  whom  shall  I  compare  her? 
To  a  dryad  ?     No.     She's  rarer. 

She  is  something — only  fairer 

Like  Bo-peep. 
She  is  merry,  she  is  clever; 
125     Surely  had  Bo-peep  been  ever 
Half  so  winsome  she  had  never 
Lost  a  sheep. 

Her  eyes  are  like  the  heather, 
Or  the  skies  in  April  weather; 
And  as  blue  as  both  together 

In  the  spring. 
Alas !     I  need  a  meter, 
As  I  pipe  her,  that  is  sweeter, 
And  a  rhythm  that  is  fleeter 

On  the  wing. 

Beyond  a  poet's  fancies. 

Though  the  muse  had  kissed  his  glances, 

Is  her  dimple  when  it  dances 

In  a  smile. 

O  the  havoc  it  is  making- 
Days  of  sorrow,  nights  of  waking- 
Half  a  score  of  hearts  are  aching 

All  the  while! 

Sweet  Phyllis  !     I  adore  her, 
And  with  beating  heart  implore  her 
On  my  loving  knees  before  her 
In  alarm. 


212          THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 


Tis  neither  kind  nor  rightful 
That  a  lassie  so  delightful 
150     Should  exert  a  spell  so  frightful 
With  her  charm. 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 
(1856-         .) 

William  Hamilton  Hayne,  son  of  Paul  Hamilton 
Hayne,  was  born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  but 
early  removed  with  his  father  to  Copse  Hill,  near 
Augusta,  Georgia.  His  verse  is  seen  frequently  in 
magazines  of  the  day. 

THE  YULE  LOG. 

Out  of  the  mighty  Yule  log  came 
The  crooning  of  the  little  wood  flame, 
A  single  bar  of  music  fraught 
With  cheerful  yet  half-pensive  thought— 
5       A  thought  elusive,  out  of  reach, 
Yet  trembling  on  the  verge  of  speech. 

SLEEP  AND  His  BROTHER  DEATH.1 

Just  ere  the  darkness  is  withdrawn, 

In  seasons  of  cold  or  heat, 
Close  to  the  boundary  line  of  Dawn 
10          These  mystical  brothers  meet. 

'These  selections  are  used  with  the  permission  of  the  author. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          213 

They  clasp  their  weird  and  shadowy  hands,, 

As  they  listen  each  to  each; 
But  never  a  mortal  understands 

Their  strange  immortal  speech. 


FRANK  LEBBY  STAN  TON. 
(1857-         0 

Frank  L.  Stanton  was  born  at  Charleston,  South 
Carolina ;  and,  after  receiving  a  common-school  educa 
tion,  learned  the  printer's  trade.  After  serving  on 
various  Georgia  papers,  he  joined  the  staff  of  the 
Atlanta  Constitution,  and  through  its  columns  has 
gained  a  wide  fame.  Among  his  numerous  volumes, 
perhaps  his  best-known  ones  are  Comes  One  with  a 
Song  (1898),  Songs  from  Dixie  Land  (1900),  Up 
from  Georgia  (1902),  and  Little  Folks  Down  South 
(1904).  The  sentiment,  music,  humbleness  of  theme, 
and  clearness  of  his  verse  have  made  it  exceedingly 
popular.  He  has  been  called  the  most  prolific  writer 
of  verse  in  the  world. 

COMES  ONE  WITH  A  SONG.* 

In  the  strife  and  the  tumult  that  sweeps  us  along 

Conies  one  with  a  song. 

In  the   storm   of  the   nations— the   wrath   for   the 
wrong — 

Comes  one  with  a  song. 

'These  selections  are  used  with  the  permission  of  the  author. 


2.14         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

5  And  over  the  rage  of  the  people  the  skies 
See  the  light  of  a  lovelier  morning  arise; 
There  are  prayers  on  Love's  lips,  and  the  light's  in 

Love's  eyes : 
Comes  one  with  a  song. 

In  the  rude  clamor  and  crush  of  the  throng 
10  Comes  one  with  a  song. 

The  winds  have  foretold  him ;  rills  rippled  along 

Of  one  with  a  song. 
And  the  sword's  in  the  scabbard,  and  soft  as  the 

clew 
On  the  lips  of  the  lilies — God's  white  thoughts  of 

you — • 
15  Love's  dear  arms  enfold  you ;  light  breaks  from  the 

blue ! 
Comes  one  with  a  song. 


LIGHT  ON  THE  HILLS. 

Dying,  they  lifted  his  curly  head, 

And  he  looked  to  the  east,  and  smiling  said : 

"It's  light  on  the  hills  !" 
20  And  he  went  away,  in  the  morning  bright 

With  that  last,  sweet,  quivering  word  of  "Light" 
On  the  lips  Death  kissed  to  a  silence  long.  .  . 
So  ends  the  sighing,  and  so  ends  the  song. 

And  I  think  that  Death,  with  his  icy  breath, 
25  Was  kind  to  him ;  and  I'm  friend  with  Death 

For  that  light  on  the  hills ! 
Back  of  it — back  of  it  glooms  the  Night, 
Dark  and  lonely ;  but  all  was  light 

When  his  lips  were  laid  in  the  silence  long.    .    . 
30       So  ends  the  sighing,  and  so  ends  the  song. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          215 

If  I  remember  his  brief,  bright  years 

With  the  pang  at  the  heart — with  the  falling  of 

tears. 

There  is  light  on  the  hills ! 
But  he  sleeps  beneath,  and  the  light's  above, 
35  And  something  is  lost  to  the  world  in  love. 

And  heaven  knows  this ;  but  it  does  no  wrong.  .  . . 
So  ends  the  sighing,  and  so  ends  the  song. 

"There  is  light  on  the  hills."     So  we  sing,  so  we 

say, 
When  God  sends  His  angel  to  kiss  it  away — 

There  is  light  on  the  hills ! 
And  we  kneel   in   the   darkness  and   say  that  we 

trust. 
When   heaven's   not   as   dear   as  our   love   in   the 

dust !— - 
As  the  love  that  it  reaps — that  it  keeps  from  us 

long.    .    .    . 
So  ends  the  sighing,  and  so  ends  the  song. 


HENRY  JEROME  STOCKARD. 
(1858-        .) 

Henry  J.  Stockard  was  born  in  Cheatham  County, 
North  Carolina,  and  was  educated  at  the  State  Uni 
versity.  He  has  held  various  professorships  in  col 
leges  of  North  Carolina,  and  is  now  a  professor  in 
Peace  Institute,  Raleigh.  A  volume  of  his  verse, 
Fugitive  Lines,  appeared  in  1897. 


2l6         THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 


HOMER.1 

That  conjuring  name  doth  change  the  centuries, 
And  the  enchanted  pagan  world  restore ! 
Old  Triton*  and  the  Nereids*  sport  before 

Poseidon's*  chariot  storming  down  the  seas. 

Pan*  blows  his  mellow  reed,  and  to  the  breeze 
The  nautilus  unfurls  his  sail  once  more ; 
While  silver  voices  wake  the  waters  o'er 

'Mid  asphodels  on  Anthemusia's  leas. 

I  hear  the  Odyssey  and  Iliad  rise 
With  deeper  rhythm  than  that  of  Chios'  surge, 
And  there  upon  the  blue  /Egean's  verge, 
Unchanging  while  the  centuries  increase, 

After  three  thousand  years  before  me  lies 

The  unveiled  shore  of  old  sea-cinctured  Greece ! 


YATES  SNOW  DEN. 
(1858-        .) 

Yates  Snowden  was  born  at  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  and  was  educated  at  the  College  of  Charles 
ton.  After  his  graduation,  in  1879,  he  studied  law 
and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1882;  but  he  has  prac 
ticed  the  profession  but  little.  Mr.  Snowden  was  for 
some  time  on  the  staff  of  The  News  and  Courier,  of 
Charleston;  but  in  1904  was  appointed  professor  of 
history  in  South  Carolina  College,  now  the  University 
of  South  Carolina,  and  has  since  been  occupied  with 
this  work. 

'From  Fugitive  Lines.  By  permission  of  the  author  and 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          217 

A  CAROLINA  BouRBON.1 
W.  M.  P.  (1812-1902). 

Ridiculous  to  some  may  seem 

This  relic  of  the  old  regime, 

So  rudely  wakened  from  his  dream 

Of  high  ambition. 
5  A  heart  of  nature's  noblest  mold, 
By  honor  tempered  and  controlled — 
O  look  not  in  a  soul  so  bold 

For  mock  contrition. 

For  when  the  die  of  war  was  cast, 

10  And  through  the  land  the  bugle  blast 

Called  all  to  arms  from  first  to  last, 

For  Carolina — 

Careless  of  what  might  be  his  fate, 
He  gave  his  all  to  save  the  State ; 
15  He  thought,  thinks  now  (strange  to  relate), 
No  cause  diviner. 

Of  name  and  lineage  proud,  he  bore 
The  character  'mongst  rich  and  poor 
Which  marks  now,  as  in  days  of  yore, 

The  Huguenot. 

Two  hundred  slaves  were  in  his  train, 
Six  thousand  acres  broad  domain. 
(His  ancestors  in  fair  Touraine 

Had  no  such  lot.) 

25  He  loved  and  wooed  in  early  days ; 
She  died — and  he  her  memory  pays 
The  highest  tribute — for,  with  ways 
And  views  extreme, 

'By  permission  of  the  author. 


2l8        THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

He,  'gainst  stern  facts  and  common  sense, 
80  To  the  whole  sex  (to  all  intents) 
Transferred  the  love  and  reverence 
Of  life's  young  dream. 

Perhaps  too  easy  life  he  led — 
Four  hours  afield  and  ten  abed ; 

35  His  other  time  he  talked  and  read, 

Or  else  made  merry 
With  many  a  planter  friend  to  dine, 
His  health  to  drink  in  rare  old  wine — 
Madeira,  which  thrice  crossed  the  line, 

40  And  gold-leaf  Sherry. 

And  here  was  mooted  many  a  day 
The  question  on  which  each  gourmet 
Throughout  the  Parish  had  his  say: 

"Which  is  the  best, 
45  Santee  or  Cooper  River  bream?" 
Alas !  the  evening  star  grew  dim, 
Ere  any  guest  agreed  with  him, 
Or  he  with  guest. 


The  war  rolled  on;  and  many  a  friend 
r>0  And  kinsman,  whom  he  helped  to  send 
Their  homes  and  country  to  defend, 

Home  ne'er  returned. 
What  harder  lot  could  now  befall  ? 
Threats  could  not  bend  nor  woes  appall ; 
C5  Unmoved,  he  saw  his  Fathers'  hall 
To  ashes  burned. 

And  now  to  live  within  his  means, 
He  dons  his  gray  Kentucky  jeans. 
(His  dress,  in  other  times  and  scenes, 
60  Was  drop  d'ctc*) 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          219 

His  hat  is  much  the  worse  for  wear; 
His  shoes  revamped  from  year  to  year, 
For  ''calfskin  boots  are  all  too  dear/' 
We  hear  him  say. 

65  So  life  drags  on  as  in  a  trance, 
No  emigre  of  stricken  France, 
No  Jacobite  of  old  romance 

Of  sterner  mold. 

His  fortune  gone,  his  rights  denied; 
70  For  him  the  Federal  Union  died 
When  o'er  Virginia's  line  the  tide 
Of  battle  rolled. 


Loyal  je  serai  durant  ma  vie* 
So  runs  his  motto.     What  cares  he 

75  For  the  flag  that  flies  from  sea  to  sea 

And  tops  the  world? 
Within  the  silence  of  his  gates 
Death's  welcome  shadow  he  awaits, 
Still  true  to  those  Confederate  States 

80  Whose  flag  is  furled. 


DANSKE  DANDRIDGE. 

(i859-        0 

Danske  Dandridge  was  born  at  Copenhagen,  Den 
mark,  her  father  being  at  the  time  United  States  min 
ister  to  that  country.  In  1877  she  married  Stephen 
Dandridge,  of  Shepherdstown,  West  Virginia.  Her 
first  volume.  Joy  and  Other  Poems,  appeared  in  1888. 


220         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


THE  DEAD  MooN.1 

We  are  ghost-ridden: 

Through  the  deep  night 
Wanders  a  spirit. 

Noiseless  and  white. 

5  Loiters  not,  lingers  not,  knoweth  not  rest ; 
Ceaselessly  haunting  the  East  and  the  West. 

She,  whose  undoing  the  ages  have  wrought, 
Moves  on  to  the  time  of  God's  rhythmical  thought. 

In  the  dark,  swinging  sea, 

10  As  she  speedeth  through  space, 

She  reads  her  pale  image; 

The  wounds  are  agape  on  her  face. 
She  sees  her  grim  nakedness 

Pierced  by  the  eyes 
15  Of  the  Spirits  of  God 

In  their  flight  through  the  skies. 
(Her  wounds,  they  are  many  and  hollow.) 
The  Earth  turns  and  wheels  as  she  flies. 
And  this  Specter,  this  Ancient,  must  follow. 

20          When,  in  the  aeons, 

Had  she  beginning? 
What  is  her  story? 

What  was  her  sinning? 
Do  the  ranks  of  the  Holy  Ones 
25  Know  of  her  crime? 

Does  it  loom  in  the  mists 

Of  the  birthplace  of  Time? 
The  stars,  do  they  speak  of  her 
Under  their  breath, 

selections  are  used  by  permission  of  the  author. 


THREE  CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          221 

so         "Will  this  Wraith  be  forever 

Thus  restless  in  death?" 
On,,  through  immensity, 

Sliding  and  stealing, 
On,  through  infinity, 
36  Nothing  revealing. 


I  see  the  fond  lovers; 

They  walk  in  her  light; 
They  charge  the  "soft  maiden" 

To  bless  their  love-plight. 
40  Does  she  laugh  in  her  place, 

As  she  glideth  through  space? 
Does  she  laugh  in  her  orbit  with  never  a  sound? 

That  to  her,  a  dead  body, 
With  nothing  but  rents  in  her  round — 
45  Blighted  and  marred, 

Wrinkled  and  scarred, 
Barren   and   cold, 
Wizened  and  old — 
That  to  her  should  be  told, 
50  That  to  her  should  be  sung 

The  yearning  and  burning  of  them  that  are  young? 


Our  Earth  that  is  young, 

That  is  throbbing  with  life, 
Has  fiery  upheavals, 

Has  boisterous  strife; 

But  she  that  is  dead  has  no  stir,  breathes  no  air ; 
She  is  calm,  she  is  voiceless,  in  lonely  despair. 
We  dart  through  the  void ; 

We  have  cries,  we  have  laughter ; 
The  phantom  that  haunts  us 

Comes  silently  after. 
This  Ghost-lady  follows. 

Though  none  hear  her  tread; 


222          THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


On,  on,  we  are  flying, 
65       Still  tracked  by  our  Dead— 
By  this  white,  awful  Mystery, 
Haggard  and  dead. 


THE  SPIRIT  AND  THE  WOOD  SPARROW. 

'Twas  long  ago: 

The  place  was  very   fair; 
70  And  from  a  cloud  of  snow 

A  spirit  of  the  air 
Dropped  to  the  earth  below. 
It  was  a  spot  by  man  untrod; 

Just  where, 
75  I  think,  is  only  known  to  God. 

The  spirit  for  a  while, 
Because  of  beauty  freshly  made, 

Could   only   smile ; 
Then  grew  the  smiling  to  a  song, 
80      And  as  he  sang  he  played 
Upon  a  moonbeam-wired  cithole 

Shaped  like  a  soul. 

There  was  no  ear 

Or  far  or  near, 
85  Save  one  small  sparrow  of  the  wood? 

That  song  to  hear. 

This,  in  a  bosky  tree, 
Heard  all,  and  understood 
As  much  as  a  small  sparrow  could 

By  sympathy. 
'Twas  a  fair  sight 

That  morn  of  Spring 
When  on  the  lonely  height 

The  spirit  paused  to  sing, 
'  Then  through  the  air  took  flight, 

Still  lilting  on  the  wing. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          223 

And  the  shy  bird, 
Who  all  had  heard, 
Straightway  began 
To  practice  o'er  the  lovely  strain; 

Again,  again ; 

Though  indistinct  and  blurred, 
He  tried  each  word. 

Until  he  caught  the  last  far  sounds  that  fell 
105  Like  the  faint  tinkles  of  a  fairy  bell. 

Now  when  I  hear  that  song, 
Which  has  no  earthly  tone, 
My  soul  is  carried  with  the  strain  along 

To  the  everlasting  Throne : 
110 To  bow  in  thankfulness  and  prayer, 

And  gain  fresh  faith,  and  love,  and  patience  there. 


BENJAMIN  SLEDD. 
(1864-         .) 

Benjamin  Sledd  was  born  in  Bedford  County,  Vir 
ginia,  and  was  educated  at  Washington  and  Lee  and 
at  Johns  Hopkins.  He  is  now  professor  of  English 
in  Wake  Forest  College,  North  Carolina.  Among  his 
works  are  two  volumes  of  poetry — From  Cliff  and 
Scaur  (1897)  and  The  Watchers  of  the  Hearth 
(1901). 

THE  CHILDREN.1 

No  more  of  work !     Yet  ere  I  seek  my  bed, 
Noiseless  into  the  children's  room  I  go, 
With  its  four  little  couches  all  a-row, 

And  bend  a  moment  over  each  dear  head. 

lBy  permission  of  the  author  and  Richard  J.  Badger  &  Co. 


224         THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

5  Those  soft,  round  arms  upon  the  pillow  spread, 
Those    dreaming    lips   babbling   more    than   we 

know, 

One  tearful,  smothered  sigh  of  baby  woe — 
Fond  dream  of  chiding,  would  they  were  unsaid ! 

And  while  on  each  moist  brow  a  kiss  I  lay, 
10  With  tremulous  rapture  grown  almost  to  pain, 
Close  at  my  side  I  hear  a  whispered  name : 
Our  long-lost  babe,  who  with  the  dawning  came, 
And  in  the  midnight  went  from  us  again. 

And  with  bowed  head,  one  good-night  more  I  say. 


MADISON  CAW  BIN. 
(1865-        .) 

Madison  Cawein  was  born  at  Louisville,  Kentucky, 
and  was  in  business  there  for  some  years.  He  is  a 
most  zealous  writer  and  a  poet  of  no  small  power. 
Such  volumes  as  Triumph  of  Music,  Lyrics  and 
Idylls,  Red  Leaves  and  Roses,  and  The  Vale  of  Tenipe 
are  of  high  excellence.  He  is  capable  of  much  vivac 
ity  and  fancy,  and  yet  there  is  oftentimes  a  tone  of 
deep  earnestness  in  his  work. 

THE  WmppooRwiLL.1 

Above  long  woodland  ways  that  led 
To  dells  the  stealthy  twilights  tread 
The  west  was  hot  geranium-red; 
And  still,  and  still, 

MJsed  by  permission  of  the  author  and  publishers,  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          225 

5  Along  old  lanes,  the  locusts  sow 
With  clustered  curls  the  May  times  know, 
Out  of  the  crimson  afterglow, 
We  heard  the  homeward  cattle  low, 
And  then  the  far-off,  far-off  woe 

Of  "whippoorwill !"  of  "whippoorwill !" 

Beneath  the  idle  beechen  boughs 
We  heard  the  cow-bells  of  the  cows 
Come  slowly  jangling  toward  the  house; 

And  still,  and  still, 
15  Beyond  the  light  that  would  not  die 
Out  of  the  scarlet-haunted  sky, 
Beyond  the  evening  star's  white  eye 
Of  glittering  chalcedony, 
Drained  out  of  dusk  the  plaintive  cry 

Of  "whippoorwill !"  of  "whippoorwill !" 

What  is  there  in  the  moon,  that  swims 
A  naked  bosom  o'er  the  limbs,, 
That  all  the  wood  with  magic  dims? 

While  still,  while  still, 
25  Among  the  trees  whose  shadows  grope 
'Mid  ferns  and  flow'rs  the  dewdrops  ope — 
Lost  in  faint  deeps  of  heliotrope 
Above  the  clover-scented  slope — 
Retreats,  despairing  past  all  hope, 

The  whippoorwill,  the  whippoorwill. 

DISENCHANTMENT  OF  DEATH. 

Hush !     She  is  dead !     Tread  gently  as  the  light 

Foots  dim  the  weary  room.     Thou  shalt  behold. 
Look :  In  death's  ermine  pomp  of  awful  white, 

Pale  passion  of  pulseless  slumber  virgin  cold: 
5  Bold,  beautiful  youth  proud  as  heroic  Might — 
Death !  and  how  death  hath  made  it  vastly  old. 
15 


226         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

Old  earth  she  is  now :  energy  of  birth 

Glad  wings   hath   fledged   and  tried   them   sud 
denly  ; 

The  eyes  that  held  have  freed  their  narrow  mirth; 
40       Their  sparks  of  spirit,  which  made  this  to  be, 
Shine  fixed  in  rarer  jewels  not  of  earth, 
Far  Fairylands  beyond  some  silent  sea. 

A  sod  is  this  whence  what  were  once  those  eyes 

Will  grow  blue  wild-flowers  in  what  happy  air ; 
45  Some  weed  with  flossy  blossoms  will  surprise, 
Haply,  what  summer  with  her  affluent  hair ; 

Blush-roses  bask  those  cheeks ;  and  the  wise  skies 
Will  know  her  dryad  to  what  young  oak  fair. 

The  chastity  of  death  hath  touched  her  so, 
50       No  dreams  of  life  can  reach  her  in  such  rest; 
No  dreams  the  mind  exhausted  here  below, 

Sleep  built  within  the  romance  of  her  breast. 
How  she  will  sleep !  like  music  quickening  slow 

Dark  the  dead  germs,  to  golden  life  caressed. 

55  Low  music,  thin  as  winds  that  lyre  the  grass, 

Smiting  through   red   roots  harpings;   and  the 

sound 
Of  elfin  revels  when  the  wild  dews  glass 

Globes  of  concentric  beauty  on  the  ground ; 
For  showery  clouds  o'er  tepid  nights  that  pass 
60       The    prayer    in    harebells    and    faint    foxgloves 
crowned. 

So,  if  she's  dead,  thou  know'st  she  is  not  dead. 

Disturb  her  not;  she  lies  so  lost  in  sleep: 
The  too-contracted  soul  its  shell  hath  fled: 
Her  presence  drifts  about  us  and  the  deep 
65  Is  yet  unvoyaged  and  she  smiles  o'erhead : 

Weep  not  nor  sigh — thou  wouldst  not  have  her 
weep  ?* 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.          227 

To  principles  of  passion  and  of  pride, 
^  To  trophied  circumstance  and  specious  law, 
Stale  saws  of  life,  with  scorn  now  flung  aside, 
From  Mercy's  throne  and  Justice  would'st  thou 

draw 

Her,  Hope  in  Hope,  and  Chastity's  pale  bride, 
In  holiest  love  of  holy,  without  flaw? 

The  anguish  of  the  living  merciless — 

Mad,  bitter  cruelty  unto  the  grave — 
75  Wrings  the  clear  dead  with  tenfold  heart's  distress, 
Earth  chaining  love,  bound  by  the  lips  that  rave. 

If  thou  hast  sorrow,  let  thy  sorrow  bless 

That  power  of  death,  of  death  our  selfless  slave. 

"Unjust?"     He  is  not!  for  hast  thou  not  all, 
All  that  thou  ever  haclst*  when  this  dull  clay 

So  heartless,  blasted  now,  flushed  spiritual, 
A  restless  vassal  of  Earth's  night  and  day  ? 

This  hath^  been  thine  and  is;  the  cosmic  call 
Hath  disenchanted  that  which  might  not  stay. 

85  Thou  unjust !— bar  not  from  its  high  estate- 
Won  with  what  toil  through  devastating  cares, 
What  bootless  battling  with  the  violent  Fate, 

What  mailed  endeavor  with  resistless  years— 
That  soul :  whole-hearted  granted  once  thy  mate, 
Heaven  only  loaned,  return  it  not  with  tears. 

LOVE   AND  A  DAY.1 

In  girandoles  of  gladioles 

The  day  had  kindled  flame; 
And  Heaven  a  door  of  gold  and  pearl 
Unclosed  when  Morning — like  a  girl, 

'Copyright,    1901,   by   Madison    J.    Cawein.     From    Weeds 
by  the  Wall    1901. 


228         THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

95  A  red  rose  twisted  in  a  curl — 

Down  sapphire  stairways  came. 
Said  I  to  Love:  "What  must  I  do? 
What  shall  I  do?     What  can  I  do?" 
Said  I  to  Love:  "What  must  I  do? 

100     All  on  a  summer's  morning." 

Said  Love  to  me:  "Go  woo,  go  woo." 

Said  Love  to  me :  "Go  woo. 
If  she  be  milking,  follow,  O! 
And  in  the  clover  hollow,  O ! 
io5While  through  the  dew  the  bells  clang  clear, 
Just  whisper  it  into  her  ear,  ^ 

All  on  a  summer's  morning." 


LIZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE. 
(1856-        .) 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  was  born  at  Waverly, 
Maryland,  but  has  lived  most  of  her  life  at  Baltimore. 
Her  collected  poems,  A  Branch  of  May,  appeared  in 
1887,  and  received  flattering  notices. 

IN  SORROW'S  HouR.1 

The  brambles*  blow  without  you— at  the  door 
They  make  late  April— and  the  brier  too 
Buds  its  first  rose  for  other  folk  than  you ; 
In  the  deep  grass  the  elder  bush  once  more 
5    Heaps  its  sweet  snow ;  and  the  marsh-marigold 
With  its  small  fire  sets  all  the  sedge  aflare ; 


'By  permission  of  Messrs.  Morris  &  Hinkley,  Baltimore, 
administrators  of  Cushings  &  Bailey,  Publishers. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          229 

Like  flakes  of  flame  blown  down  the  gray,  still 

air, 

The  cardinal  flower  is  out  in  thickets  old. 
O,  love !  O,  love !  what  road  is  yours  to-day  ? 

For  I  would  follow  after,  see  your  face, 

Put  my  hand  in  your  hand,  feel  the  dear  grace 
Of  hair,  mouth,  eyes,  hear  the  brave  words  you  say. 

The  dark  is  void,  and  all  the  daylight  vain. 

O  that  you  were  but  here  with  me  again ! 


WALTER   MALONE. 
(1866-        .) 

Judge  Malone  was  born  in  De  Soto  County,  Missis 
sippi.  After  graduating  at  the  University  of  Missis 
sippi,  in  1887,  he  went  to  Memphis,  Tennessee,  to 
take  up  the  practice  of  law,  and  has  resided  there 
since,  with  the  exception  of  three  years  (1897-1900) 
spent  in  literary  work  in  New  York.  Among  his 
numerous  work  are  The  Outcast  and  Other  Poems 
(1885),  Songs  of  Dusk  and  Dazvn  (1894),  Songs  of 
North  and  South  (1900),  and  Poems  (1904). 

A  PORTRAIT  OF  HENRY  TiMROD.1 

Strange  eyes  gaze  sadly  from  that  weary  face, 
Beneath  a  brow  that  shows  the  seal  of  care ; 

Defeat  and  Disappointment  leave  their  trace 
Upon  the  youthful  visage  pictured  there. 

'By  permission  of  the  author. 


230         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

5  The  same  old  story  here  is  handed  down — 

The  true-born  poet  and  the  same  old  doom — 
The  bard  who  starves  while  rhymesters  wear  the 

crown, 
Who  finds  his  throne  erected  in  a  tomb. 

Gone  are  the  glories  of  your  halcyon  days. 
10       Gone  are  the  heroes  whom  you  sung  of  yore ; 
Their  banners  in  the  skies  no  longer  blaze, 
Their  fervent  shouts  are  stilled  for  evermore. 

No  more  their  white  steeds  paw  the  bloody  field, 

No  more  their  trumpets  rouse  the  raptured  soul, 
15  No  more  their  ranks  in  fiery  fight  are  wheeled, 
No  more  their  drums  like  sullen  thunders  roll. 

Yet  as  I  view  your  old-time  picture,  all 

The  proud  past  blossoms,  though  your  day  has 

fled; 

Once  more  I  hear  your  Stuart's  battle-call, 
20       And  see  your  Stonewall  rising  from  the  dead. 

I  see  their  blazoned  banners  float  like  fire, 

I   hear   their   shouts   sweep   down    the   perished 
years ; 

I  hear  once  more  the  throbbing  of  your  lyre, 
Ecstatic  with  a  nation's  hopes  and  fears. 

25  And  foes  with  friends  now  come  to  honor  you, 
O  poet,  free  from  blemish  and  from  blame ; 
A  wreath  is  yours  as  long  as  men  are  true, 
As  long  as  Courage  wins  the  crown  of  Fame! 


NOTES. 


R.  RICH,  GENT. 

These  specimens  from  Newes  from  Virginia  are  given,  not 
because  of  any  poetic  merit,  but  simply  to  show  the  general 
spirit  of  the  times,  the  character  of  the  first  colonists,  the 
hardships  that  they  suffered,  and  the  hopes  that  were  theirs. 

Line  3:  "Report  doth  lye."  It  was  believed  in  both  Great 
Britain  and  America  that  Gates  and  Newport  had  been  lost 
at  sea. 

Line  24:  "Wee  hope."  This  line  has  something  of  the 
character  of  a  prophecy.  It  expresses  an  idea  greater  than 
its  writer  realized. 


JOHN  SMITH. 

"Advertisement."     The  word  formerly  had  a  meaning  akin 
to  our  word  "advice"  or  "explanation." 


GEORGE  SANDYS. 

OVID.— A  Roman  poet  (43  B.C.-i8  A.D.),  whose  Meta 
morphoses,  a  poem  in  fifteen  books,  tells  the  story  of  many 
wonderful  changes  of  human  beings  into  animals,  trees,  etc. 


GEORGE  ALSOP. 

PURPLE  CAP. — Such  a  cap  was  sometimes  placed  upon  the 
dead. 

Line  13:  "Noll."  A  popular  seventeenth-century  abbre 
viation  of  "Oliver." 


232          THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Line  14:  "Westminster."      Cromwell's    head    was    exposed 
in  Westminster  Hall,  London. 
Line  19:  "Three-pile."     A  heavy,  expensive  velvet. 


BACON'S   EPITATH. 

Line  2:  "Spleen."  A  word  formerly  used  for  "anger"  or 
"jealousy." 

Line  21 :  "Mars."  The  Roman  god  of  war,  son  of  Jupiter 
and  Juno. 

Line  21 :  "Minerva."  The  goddess  of  arts  and  sciences, 
said  to  have  sprung  from  the  head  of  Jupiter.  The  Par 
thenon  was  her  temple. 

Line  22:  "Whose  pen  and  sword  alike."  Contemporary 
accounts  show  Bacon  to  have  been  not  only  a  brave  leader, 
but  a  man  of  brilliant  intellect  as  well.  Born  at  Suffolk, 
England,  in  1647,  and  educated  in  London,  he  came  to  Vir 
ginia  in  1673,  quickly  gained  rank  as  a  lawyer,  and  soon  be 
came  a  member  of  Sir  William  Berkeley's  council.  In  1675 
the  colonists  chose  him,  against  the  wishes  of  Berkeley,  as 
leader  of  the  forces  sent  to  subdue  the  Indians,  and  in  1676 
Berkeley  declared  him  a  rebel.  Bacon  entered  Jamestown, 
with  his  troops,  and  forced  the  governor  to  give  him  the 
commission.  A  number  of  conflicts  ensued;  but  Bacon,  by 
means  of  his  shrewdness  and  versatility,  always  came  forth 
victor.  He  died,  probably  from  the  effects  of  poison,  October 
i,  1676. 

Line  23:  "Cato."  A  Roman  patriot  (234  B.C.-T49  B.C.), 
noted  as  writer,  orator,  statesman,  and  soldier. 

Line  35 :  "Whether  to  Caesar."  A  reference  to  the  accu 
sation  against  Jesus,  that  he  was  Caesar's  enemy. 


EBENEZER  COOK. 

Line  9 :  "A  pious,  conscientious  rogue."  The  feeling  was 
then  very  bitter  against  the  Quakers,  and  this  line  probably 
struck  a  popular  chord. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          233 

Line  n:  "Swore."  It  is  against  the  creed  of  the  Quaker 
to  swear  to  a  statement.  He  holds  to  the  biblical  command 
to  let  the  answer  be  simply  "yea"  or  "nay." 

Line  14:  "Light  within."  The  Quaker  is  guided  by  inner 
light,  or  conscience,  rather  than  by  theological  dogma. 

Line  17:  "Ten  thousand  weight."  Very  little  money  was 
used  in  early  American  commerce.  In  the  South  tobacco 
was  the  basis  of  valuation. 

Line  19:  "Oronooka."    A  fine  brand  of  tobacco. 


VIRGINIA  HEARTS  OF  OAK. 

Line  3:  "Than  America  copies."  This  was  literally  true. 
When  hostilities  first  began,  it  was  not  the  intention  of  the 
American  colonies  to  separate  from  England,  and  many 
Americans  opposed  the  idea  until  the  very  close  of  the  war. 

Line  n:  "Magna  Charta."  The  English  bill  of  rights 
(1215)  by  which  many  privileges  were  gained  by  the  common 
people. 

Notice  the  brave  and  hearty  swing  of  this  poem.  The 
form  of  expression  agrees  with  the  sentiment  of  the  song. 


HUGH  HENRY  BRACKENRIDGE. 

WARREN.— An  American  statesman  and  general  (1741- 
1775),  killed  at  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  A  statue  of  him 
stands  there  to-day. 

Line  10:  "Brutus."  This  may  very  well  be  applied  to 
either  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  (500  B.C.)  or  Marcus  Junius 
Brutus  (84  B.C.-42  B.C.).  Lucius  drove  the  king  from  Rome 
and  established  a  republic;  Marcus  endeavored  to  preserve  its 
freedom,  and  for  that  purpose  became  one  of  the  assassins 
of  Julius  Caesar. 

Line  10:  "Hampden."  A  British  patriot  (1594-1643),  who 
opposed  the  tyranny  of  Charles  I.  and  fought  in  Cromwell's 
army. 


234         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

Line  10:  "Sidney."  A  British  patriot  (1622-1683),  who 
opposed  Charles  I.  and  aided  Cromwell  until  the  latter  be 
gan  to  assume  great  power.  He  then  opposed  Cromwell  and 
was  an  exile  for  many  years,  but  was  pardoned  by  Charles 
II.  His  political  enemies  connected  him  with  the  Rye  House 
Plot,  and  caused  his  execution. 

Line  20:  "Amaranth."  A  flower  that  preserves  its  fresh 
ness  for  a  long  time  after  being  cut;  hence  an  emblem  of  im 
mortality. 

GENERAL  MONTGOMERY. — An  American  general  (1736-1775), 
who  captured  Montreal  and  was  killed  in  the  attempt  to 
take  Quebec.  His  remains  lie  buried  under  the  monument 
in  front  of  St.  Paul's  Church,  New  York. 

Line  27:  "Cyclops."  Mythological  giants,  each  having  but 
one  eye.  They  helped  Vulcan  in  making  armor. 

Line  28:  "Saracen."  Followers  of  Mohammed.  They 
were  considered  exceedingly  cruel  and  bloodthirsty. 

Line  29:  "Mogul."     A  member  of  the  Mongolian  race. 

Line  29:  "Tartar."  A  member  of  an  Asiatic  tribe  which 
was  powerful  during  the  Middle  Ages. 

Line  37:  "That  was  an  Englishman."  The  purpose  of 
Brackenridge's  plays  was  to  arouse  the  fighting  spirit  in  the 
American  people,  and  hence  we  find  the  emotions  rather  ex 
aggerated.  It  must  be  remembered  that  some  of  the  pros 
perous  merchants  of  Boston  and  New  York  and  some  of  the 
ancient  families  of  Virginia  gave  all  the  plans  for  war  a  very 
cool  reception. 


WILLIAM  MUNFORD. 

ILIAD. — The  famous  epic  by  the  Greek  poet,  Homer  (loth 
century,  B.C.).  It  describes  the  siege  of  Troy  by  the  Greeks. 

HECTOR. — The  greatest  warrior  among  the  Trojans.  He 
was  killed  by  Achilles  and  his  body  dragged  through  the 
Greek  camps. 

Line  2:  "Troy."  An  ancient  city  of  Asia  Minor,  de 
stroyed  by  the  Greeks. 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN"  POETRY.         235 

Line  5:  "Jove."  Jupiter,  the  chief  god  in  classical  mythol 
ogy. 

Line  17:  "Saturnian."  Saturn,  Jove's  predecessor,  was  be 
lieved  to  have  founded  civilization  and  agriculture  in  Italy. 
He  is  sometimes  represented  as  Time,  holding  a  scythe. 


JOHN  SHAW. 

Line  12.  Notice  in  the  first  twelve  lines  the  slightly  ex 
aggerated  descriptions  of  beautiful  features  and  characteris 
tics  :  "coral  hue,"  "pearly  treasures,"  "morning  of  thine  eye," 
bosom's  "snows,"  etc.  This  tendency  is  found  in  nearly  all 
love  lyrics.  Compare  with  this  poem  Annie  Laurie,  some 
poems  of  Robert  Burns,  Pinkney's  A  Health  and  A  Serenade, 
Poe's  To  One  in  Paradise,  and  Samuel  Minturn  Peck's 
Phyllis  and  A  Southern  Girl. 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

Line  10:  "That  veils  thy  throne."  Notice  here,  as  else 
where,  evidences  of  the  artistic  sense  of  the  poet.  He  sees 
the  light  with  an  artist's  eye.  This  is  shown  also  in  line  12 
in  the  words  "a  blot  in  space." 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. — Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (1772-1834), 
one  of  the  most  famous  essayists  and  poets  in  English  litera 
ture.  His  best  poem  is  The  Ancient  Mariner.  Coleridge  and 
Allston  met  in  Italy  and  became  close  friends. 

Line  16 :  "Thy  gentle  voice."  Coleridge  was  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  talkers  of  the  nineteenth  century. 


WILLIAM  MAXWELL. 

Line  7:  "Phcenix."  The  never-dying  bird  of  mythology. 
At  the  close  of  every  hundredth  year  of  its  existence  it  was 
consumed  in  a  fire  enkindled  by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  was 


236         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

recreated   immediately,   with   all   the   strength   and  beauty  of 
youth.    The  bird  was  believed  to  live  almost  entirely  alone. 

Line  n:  "Venus."  A  very  brilliant  planet,  sometimes  oc 
cupying  a  place  as  the  Evening  Star.  It  derives  its  name 
from  that  of  the  Roman  goddess  of  love. 


RICHARD  DABNEY. 

EPIGRAM. — A  brief,  concise,  pithy  statement. 

ARCHIAS. — A  Greek  poet  known  to  modern  times  through 
Cicero's  famous  oration,  Pro  Archia  Pocta. 

Line  22:  "Lucifer."  The  Morning  Star.  The  word  comes 
from  the  Latin  and  means  "light-bearer." 

Line  34:  "Hesperus."  A  name  given  to  the  Evening  Star 
by  the  Greeks. 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 

Line  8:  "But  none  shall  weep."  The  last  line  of  each 
stanza  possibly  constitutes  a  weakness  in  this  poem.  To 
many  readers  of  to-day  these  words  have  a  slight  strain  of 
insincerity  and  sentimentality. 

Line  29:  "Yorick."  The  court  fool  whose  skull  was  dug 
up  by  the  gravediggers,  in  Hamlet.  "Alas,  poor  Yorick!  I 
knew  him,  Horatio;  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  ex 
cellent  fancy." 

Line  32:  "Abbot  of  Misrule."  A  master  of  Christmas 
festivals  who  absolved  all  his  followers  of  their  wisdom  and 
reason. 

Line  36:  "Jaques."  A  melancholy,  cynical  character  in 
Shakespeare's  As  You  Like  It. 

A  FAREWELL  TO  AMERICA. — This  poem  refers  to  Wilde's 
departure  for  Italy  (1834). 

Line  39:  "More  than  fatherland."  It  should  be  remem 
bered  that  the  poet  was  a  native  of  Ireland. 

Line  55:  "It  may  be  years."  He  was  abroad  about  four 
years  (1835-1840). 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          237 

MIRABEAU  BONAPARTE  LAMAR. 
THE  DAUGHTER  OF  MENDOZA. — This  poem  is  said  to  have 
been  written  in   honor   of  a   beautiful   woman  in  Argentine 
Republic.    The  Mendoza  is  a  river  in  that  country. 


EDWARD  CO  ATE  PINKNEY. 

A  HEALTH. — This  poem  was  composed  in  honor  of  a  very 
close  friend  of  Pinkney's,  Mrs.  Rebecca  Somerville,  of  Bal 
timore.  Notice  the  use  of  beautiful  consonant  and  vowel 
combinations.  Compare  it  with  Ben  Jonson's  Drink  to  Me 
Only  zvith  Thine  Eyes. 

Line  49 :  "Afghaun."  A  native  of  Afghanistan.  The  peo 
ple  are  Mohammedans,  but  still  retain  many  pagan  ideas. 

A  SERENADE. — This  was  written  in  honor  of  Miss  Mc- 
Causland,  whom  Pinkney  married  in  1824. 


GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE. 

Line  12:  "Worshiped  his  own  loved  sun."  The  ancient 
Persians  were  sun  worshipers. 

THE  CLOSING  YEAR. — Compare  this  poem  with  Bryant's 
Thanatopsis  and  The  Flood  of  Years,  Young's  Night 
Thoughts,  and  Wordsworth's  The  Excursion.  Note  carefully 
the  similarities  and  contrasts  in  their  sentiment  and  structure. 

Line  69:  "Glass  and  scythe."  This  refers  to  the  familiar 
representation  of  Time  as  an  old  man  carrying  an  hourglass 
and  a  scythe. 

Line  94 :  "Pleiad."  Seven  stars  are  believed  to  have  com 
posed  the  Pleiades,  but  one  has  been  lost  in  space.  Compare 
the  poem  with  William  Gilmore  Simms's  The  Lost  Pleiad. 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 

THE    GRAPEVINE    SWING.— This    swing    was    at    Simms's 
home,   "Woodlands."     "The   vine  had   drooped   its   festoons, 


238         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

one  below  another,  in  such  a  way  that  half  a  dozen  persons 
.  .  .  could  find  a  comfortable  seat,  and  yet  not  one  of  them 
be  sitting  on  a  level  with  his  neighbor."  (W.  P.  Trent,  Life 
of  William  Gilmorc  Simms.) 

Line  43:   "Of  Chaldea."     The  Chaldean  shepherd  is  here 
identified  with  the  Magi,  who  were  astrologers. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Line  5 :  "Giddy  stars."  "Giddy"  here  means  not  foolish 
but  bewildered  or  dizzy. 

Line  12:  "Levin."    Lightning. 

Line  26:  "Houri."  According  to  the  Moslem  teachings, 
beautiful  women,  known  as  Houri,  are  given  to  the  faithful 
after  death. 

Line  51.  Compare  this  with  the  closing  lines  of  Shelley's 
Skylark. 

THE  BELLS. — This  poem  appeared  in  its  final  form  in  Sar- 
tain's  Union  Magazine  December,  1849.  The  periodical  gives 
some  portions  of  the  original  draft,  and  from  them  we  may 
judge  how  carefully  Poe  revised  the  lines  and  how  great  an 
improvement  he  wrought.  We  quote  one  stanza: 

"The  bells !— ah,  the  bells ! 
The  heavy  iron  bells ! 
Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells! 

Hear  the  bells ! 
How  horrible  a  monody  there  floats 

From  their  throats — 
From  their  deep-toned  throats! 
How  I  shudder  at  the  notes 
From  the  melancholy  throats 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells ! 

Of  the  bells!" 

Line  61 :  "Runic  rhyme."  The  expression  here  means  a 
mystic  rhyme,  because  of  the  unknown  meaning  of  the  an- 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          239 

cient  Runic  writings.     Notice  throughout  the  poem  the  effects 
of  the  vowel  and  consonant  repetitions. 

ANNABEL  LEE.— Stedman,  the  American  critic,  says:  "The 
refrain  and  measure  of  this  lyric  suggest  a  reversion,  in  the 
music-haunted  brain  of  its  author,  to  the  songs  and  melodies 
that,  whether  primitive  or  caught  up,  are  favorites  with  the 
colored  race,  and  that  must  have  been  familiar  to  the  poet 
during  his  childhood  in  the  South."  The  poem  is  an  ex 
pression  of  Poe's  love  for  his  wife. 

Line  202:  "I  lie  down."  In  the  stormiest  weather  Poe  lin 
gered  longest  by  his  wife's  grave. 

THE  RAVEN.— This  poem  received  wide  notice  upon  its 
publication  in  the  New  York  Evening  Mirror  in  January, 
1845.  The  editor,  N.  P.  Willis,  spoke  of  it  as  "unsurpassed 
in  English  poetry  for  subtle  conception,  masterly  ingenuity, 
of  versification,  and  consistent  sustaining  of  imaginative  lift." 
It  became  widely  known  in  England  and  made  a  strong  im 
pression  upon  every  reader  there.  According  to  Mrs.  Brown 
ing,  one  lady  took  down  her  bust  of  Pallas,  declaring  that, 
after  reading  this  poem,  she  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  the 
figure. 

Line  242 :  "Flirt  and  flutter."  Poe  states  that  for  the  pur 
pose  of  making  the  latter  part  of  the  poem  a  striking  con 
trast,  he  made  the  approach  of  the  bird  as  near  "to  the 
ludicrous  as  was  admissible." 

Line  243:  "A  stately  Raven."  Poe  told  a  friend  that  an 
owl  did  come  into  his  room  in  this  manner;  but  that,  in  writ 
ing  the  poem,  he  chose  the  raven  as  being  more  poetic. 

Line  246:  "Pallas."  The  goddess  of  arts  and  sciences, 
often  called  Minerva.  It  will  be  noticed  that  the  lover  is 
here  a  student. 

Line  252:  "Plutonian."  Pluto  was  the  god  of  the  dark 
underworld. 

Line  287:  "Nepenthe."  A  drink  given  by  the  gods  for  the 
purpose  of  banishing  sorrow. 

Line  294:  "Balm  in  Gilead."     See  Jeremiah  viii.  22. 

Line  298:  "Aidenn."  The  Garden  of  Eden,  but  here  rep 
resenting  the  Future. 


240         THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM. — It  is  doubtful  whether  in  all  lit 
erature  there  is  a  poem  more  filled  with  horror  and  despair. 
It  contains  not  one  hopeful  word. 

Line  344:  "Theater."    The  world. 

Line  345 :  "Play."    Human  life. 

Line  348:  "Mimes."  The  mimes  represent  men,  who  are 
considered  by  Poe  as  mere  toys  of  circumstance. 

Line  358 :  "Phantom."  The  phantom  is  complete  happi 
ness,  which,  of  course,  none  obtain  on  this  earth. 


ALBERT  PIKE. 

Line  12:  "Glad  scorner  of  all  cities."  The  mocking  bird 
is  a  very  shy  creature,  and  prefers  secluded  places  for  its 
home. 

Line  23:  "yEolian."  yEolus  was  the  god  of  the  winds; 
hence  the  seolian  harp  is  one  played  by  the  winds. 

Line  34:  "I  cannot  love."  Compare  this  sentence  with  the 
closing  lines  of  Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner.  Compare  the 
entire  poem  with  Keats's  Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 

Line  88:  "Red  autumn."  Notice  the  appropriateness  of 
the  descriptive  words  here  and  in  line  90  also. 

Line  106:  "Crescent  Diana."  Diana  was  the  goddess  of 
hunting  and  represented  the  moon. 


ALEXANDER  BEAUFORT  MEEK. 

Line   19 :   "Helvyn."     Switzerland. 

Line  19:  "Tempe."  A  valley  in  Thessaly,  where  victors 
in  the  ancient  games  were  crowned. 

Line  33:  "Heaven's  best  gift  to  man."  This  is  inaccurately 
quoted  from  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  v.  18:  "Heaven's  last 
best  gift." 

Line  70:  "Petrarch."  The  great  Italian  poet  (1304-1374), 
whose  sonnets  to  his  mistress,  Laura,  are  among  the  most 
famous  poems  in  all  literature. 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          241 

Line  77:  "Anacreon."  A  Greek  poet  (561  B.C.),  who 
wrote  many  lyrics  on  love. 

Line  79:  "Bird  of  music."  Lines  79-82  have  often  been 
quoted  because  of  their  happily  worded  description. 


PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE. 

FLORENCE  VANE.— The  poem  was  published  in  the  Gentle 
man's  Magazine  while  Poe  was  editor  (1839-1840).  Poe  was 
very  much  an  admirer  of  Cooke's  work. 

Line  13:  "Elysian."  Elysium  was  the  mythological  home 
of  the  blest. 

Line  22:  "Without  a  main."  The  idea  is  a  heart  without 
a  resting  place,  without  stability. 

Compare  this  poem  with  Browning's  The  Last  Ride  To 
gether  and  Landor's  Rose  Aylmer. 


SEVERN  TEACKLE  WALLIS. 

THE  BLESSED  HAND.— This  poem  was  written  to  be  sold  at 
the  Southern  Relief  Fair,  held  at  Baltimore  shortly  after  the 
Civil  War.  The  proceeds,  amounting  to  about  $165,000,  were 
expended  in  reestablishing  the  ruined  homes  of  the  South. 
Printed  copies  of  The  Blessed  Hand  were  sold  and  brought 
in  no  small  share  of  the  total  amount.  The  poem  is  based 
on  a  legend  that  an  English  monk  at  the  monastery  of 
Aremberg  spent  his  life  beautifying  books,  and  that  when 
his  tomb  was  opened  long  after  his  death,  his  right  hand 
was  found  preserved  from  all  decay. 

Line  14:  "Matin  song."  Matin,  according  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  order  of  worship,  is  the  early  morning  hour  for 
prayer. 

Line  20:  "Missals."  An  ancient  book  containing  the 
church  service. 

Line  28:  "Vesper  chime."    Vesper  is  the  evening  hour  of 
prayer.      The    chimes    of   nearly   all   European   churches    are 
rung  at  this  time. 
16 


242          THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


AMELIA    WELBY. 

Line  8:  "And  held  it  trembling  there."  The  last  four  lines 
of  this  poem,  because  of  their  happy  description,  were  for 
merly  often  quoted. 

Line  10:  "Sad  moan."  This  refers  to  the  sound  always 
heard  when  a  shell  is  placed  against  the  ear. 


THEODORE  O'HARA. 

Line  36:  "Serried  foe."  The  Mexicans,  under  General 
Santa  Anna,  numbered  21,000;  while  the  Americans,  under 
General  Zachary  Taylor,  numbered  but  4.769- 
Line  41 :  "Long  has  the  doubtful  conflict  raged."  The  bat 
tle  lasted  more  than  ten  hours,  and  the  losses  on  both  sides 
were  exceedingly  heavy. 

Line  47:  "Stout  old  chieftain."  Taylor,  who  had  been  in 
command  of  Kentuckians  during  the  War  of  1812,  was  the 
idol  of  his  men,  and  doubtless  deserved  their  admiration. 

Line  58:  "Angostura."  The  word  means  "the  narrows," 
and  is  the  name  of  a  pass  near  the  battlefield. 

Line  65:  "Dark  and  Bloody  Ground."  This  is  the  mean 
ing  of  the  Indian  word  "Kentucky." 

Line  75:  "Spartan  mother's  breast."  According  to  the 
Greek  story,  the  Spartan  mother  handed  the  shield  to  her 
son  with  these  words :  "Come  back  with  this  or  upon  this." 


PLANTATION  MELODIES. 

MOURNER'S  SONG.— -This  little  lyric  gives  some  conception 
of  the  religion  and  "theology"  of  the  ante-bellum  negro.  Like 
all  primitive  races,  he  made  more  of  God's  might  and  de 
structive  powers  than  of  God's  love. 

ROLL,  JORDAN,  ROLL.— This  song  and  Swing  Low,  Sweet 
Chariot  were  probably  the  most  popular  of  ante-bellum  negro 
hymns.  The  tunes  are  weird,  but  exceedingly  melodious. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   TOETRY.          243 

Line^iS :  "Youah  days  be  long."  See  Psalm  xxi.  4;  xxxiv. 
II ;  xci.  16;  Proverbs  iii.  i;  ix.  u;  x.  27. 

Line  25:  "Histe  de  window."  In  order  to  give  vent  to  the 
emotions,  such  side  remarks  are  very  often  used  in  negro 
melodies.  Ejuculations  fulfilling  much  the  same  purpose  are 
sometimes  found  in  the  Psalms. 

SWING  Low,  SWEET  CHARIOT.— See  Psalm  Ixviii.  17;  Isaiah 
Ixvi.  15;  Revelation  ix.  9. 

Line  57:  "Silvah  spade,"  "gol'en  chain,"  etc.  Descriptions 
of  vast  wealth,  rich  ornaments,  and  luxurious  surroundings 
are  very  common  in  these  old  hymns.  It  is  a  significant 
fact  that  the  Psalms— themselves  rich  in  such  descriptions- 
were  the  favorite  portion  of  the  Scriptures  among  the  earlier 
negroes. 

LAY  Dis   BODY  DOWN.— In  these  crude   lines   one  finds  a 

suggestion    of    the    course    of    life:    conscious    existence "I 

knows  moon-rise,  I  knows  star-rise;"  death— "I  walks  in  de 
graveyard,  I  walks  troo  de  graveyard;"  resurrection— "I 
goes  to  de  judgment  in  de  evenin'  of  de  day;"  and  heaven— 

"An'  my  soul  and  youah  soul  will  meet  in  de  day 
When  I  lays  dis  body  down." 


CIVIL  WAR  SONGS. 

These  specimens  are  given  not  because  of  poetic  merit  but 
to  show  the  spirit  of  the  time.  However  crude  they  may 
appear,  they  were  well  suited  for  the  singers  around  the  camp 
fire. 

Line  3:  "Lice  of  Egypt."  See  Exodus  viii.  16;  Psalm 
cv.  31. 

Line  9:  "Old  Kentucky  is  caved  from  under."  Kentucky 
was  restrained  from  giving  much  aid  to  the  Confederacy  be 
cause  of  the  early  arrival  of  Union  troops  on  her  soil. 

Line  10:  "Tennessee  is  split  asunder."     The  larger  portion 


244          THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN    POETRY. 

of  East  and  Middle  Tennessee  did  not  wish  to   secede.     In 
these  sections  families  divided,  and  brother  fought  brother. 

Line  13:  "Old  John  Brown  is  dead  and  gone."  John  Brown 
had  been  executed  for  attempting  to  raise  an  insurrection 
among  the  slaves. 

Line  14:  "His  spirit."  This  refers  sarcastically  to  a  popu 
lar  Union  song  about  John  Brown,  containing  the  words: 
"His  soul  goes  marching  on." 

Line  16:  "An  ape's  from  Illinois."  The  words  refer  to 
Abraham  Lincoln. 

Line  17.  The  sentiments  expressed  in  this  line  and  the 
following  ten  or  twelve  show  the  general  feeling  of  the  times. 
No  one  thought  that  the  war  would  last  any  length  of  time 
or  be  anything  serious. 

THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG. — A  little  Irishman,  Harry  Mc- 
Carty  by  name,  was  the  author  of  this  song  and  made  it 
popular  by  singing  it  to  "crowded  houses"  throughout  the 
South.  It  illustrates  very  well  the  spirit  with  which  the 
South  entered  into  the  war. 

THE  SOLDIER  BOY. — This  poem,  which  is  of  no  small  merit, 
was  first  published  in  a  Virginia  paper  and  was  copied 
widely. 

Line  66:  "Damascus."  A  city  of  Syria,  perhaps  the  oldest 
in  the  world,  once  famous  for  its  fine  swords. 

Line  81.  The  thought  in  the  comparison  that  follows  is 
noble.  Just  as  this  sword  is  handed  on,  so  a  worthy  cause 
or  sentiment  is  bequeathed  from  generation  to  generation. 


MARGARET  PRESTON. 

Line  6:  "The  footsteps  of  angels  drawing  near."  The 
"text"  of  the  poem  is  drawn  from  Genesis  xviii.  1-3:  "And 
Abraham  sat  in  the  tent  door  in  the  heat  of  the  day;  and 
he  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  looked,  and,  lo,  three  men  stood  by 
him:  and  when  he  saw  them,  he  ran  to  meet  them  from  the 
tent  door,  and  bowed  himself  toward  the  ground,  and  said, 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          245 

My  Lord,  if  now  I  have  found  favor  in  thy  sight,  pass  not 
away,  I  pray  thee,  from  thy  servant." 

THE  HERO  OF  THE  COMMUNE. — Commune  de  Paris,  a  po 
litical  organization  of  socialists  and  workingmen  who  re 
volted  against  the  French  government  March  17,  1871. 

Notice  the  dramatic  quality  of  this  poem.  How  is  it 
gained  ? 

Line  i :  "Garc.on."    A  French  word  for  "boy." 

Line  46:  "Sacre."    A  French  interjection. 

Line  67:  "Saint  Denis."  The  patron  saint  of  France.  He 
was  the  first  bishop  of  Paris,  and  suffered  martyrdom  in 
272. 

Line  78:  "Parbleu."    A  French  interjection. 

Line  79:  "Ncy."  A  famous  French  general  (1789-1815), 
one  of  the  chief  officers. in  Napoleon's  army. 

Line  94:  "Faith  that  had  yearnings."  Stonewall  Jackson 
was  a  very  devout  Christian. 

A  GRAVE  IN  HOLLYWOOD  CEMETERY,  RICHMOND. — The  grave 
was  that  of  the  poet,  John  R.  Thompson,  whose  ill  health 
had  made  him  an  exile. 

Line  in:  "Dante."  The  greatest  Italian  poet  (1265-1321), 
who  was  exiled  by  political  enemies.  He  died  at  Ravenna. 

Line  131 :  "Mystic  cable."  A  comparison  to  the  ocean  tel 
egraph  cable. 

Line  135 :  "Mellow  rhymes."  See  the  specimens  of  Thomp 
son's  poetry  given  in  this  book. 

Line  139:  "Provengal-like."  It  was  formerly  the  custom 
of  the  singers  of  Provence,  France,  to  wander  from  town 
to  town,  or  from  castle  to  castle,  composing  and  singing 
their  lyrics. 

Line  141 :  "Virginia's  name."  Thompson  was  a  native  of 
Virginia. 

Line  144:  "Whose  ringing  ballad."  The  ballad  is  Thomp 
son's  The  Death  of  Stuart. 

Line  145 :  "Bold  Stuart."  James  Ewell  Brown  Stuart 
(1833-1864)  was  a  famous  Confederate  cavalry  leader  who 
was  noted  for  his  daring  raids  and  attacks. 


246         THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY. 


FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOR. 

LITTLE  GIFFEN. — The  story  told  in  this  stirring  poem  is 
true.  A  boy  from  East  Tennessee  was  nursed  back  to  life 
at  Torch  Hill,  Dr.  Ticknor's  home,  and  had  scarcely  re 
turned  to  the  rank  when  he  fell  in  battle.  Maurice  Thomp 
son  has  said  of  the  poem:  "If  there  is  a  finer  lyric  than  this 
in  the  whole  realm  of  poetry,  I  should  be  glad  to  read  it." 

Line  12 :  "Lazarus."     See  Luke  xvi.  20. 

Line  25 :  "Johnston."  General  Joseph  Johnston,  a  Con 
federate  leader. 

Line  32:  "Knights  of  Arthur's  ring."  The  reference  is  to 
the  companions  of  King  Arthur,  the  ancient  Celtic  ruler, 
whose  Round  Table  represents  in  literature  the  noblest  phases 
of  knighthood. 

VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY. — This  poem  was  written  by 
Ticknor  shortly  after  hearing  that  the  Virginia  soldiers  had 
successfully  resisted  the  invading  Union  forces. 

Line  44:  "Raleigh."  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  the  English  ex 
plorer,  sent  colonizing  expeditions  to  Virginia;  but  it  is 
believed  that  he  himself  never  came  to  its  shores. 

Line  45 :  "Smith."  Captain  John  Smith  was  decidedly  the 
ablest  leader  among  the  early  colonists  in  Virginia. 

Line  58:  "Golden  Horseshoe  Knights."  Early  in  the 
eighteenth  century  Alexander  Spotswood,  Governor  of  Vir 
ginia  from  1710  to  1723,  explored  and  took  possession  of  the 
Valley  of  Virginia.  Tradition  says  that  he  presented  each 
one  of  the  exploring  party  with  a  small  gold  horseshoe. 


JOHN  REUBEN  THOMPSON. 

Music  IN  CAMP.— During  parts  of  1862  and  1863  both 
armies  were  encamped  on  the  banks  of  the  Rappahannock. 
The  poem  illustrates  how  little  personal  animosity  exists  be 
tween  members  of  hostile  armies. 

Line  65 :  "Iris."     The  rainbow. 

Line  76:  "One  touch  of  Nature."    The  expression  is  drawn 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          247 

from  Shakespeare's  famous  line:  "One  touch  of  nature 
makes  the  whole  world  kin."  (Troilus  and  Cressida,  III.,  3.) 

THE  BATTLE  RAINBOW. — Just  after  a  great  storm  the  day 
before  the  Seven  Days'  Fighting  a  rainbow  spanned  the  Con 
federate  camp. 

Line  99:  "Slipp'ry  intrenchment,"  "reddened  redoubt." 
Notice  the  poet's  use  of  adjective  to  impress  the  idea  of  the 
dreadfulness  of  war. 

Line  103:  "Day  unto  day."  See  Psalm  xix.  2.  The  happy 
phrasing  of  this  sentence  has  often  been  pointed  out. 


JAMES  MATH  EWES  LEG  ARE. 

Line  n:  "Mede."  A  native  of  Media,  a  country  of  Asia, 
conquered  by  Cyrus  and  made  a  part  of  Persia  by  him. 

Line  14:  "Stones  for  bread."     See  Matthew  vii.  9. 

Compare  Ahab  Mohammed  with  Lowell's  Vision  of  Sir 
Launfal  and  Leigh  Hunt's  Abou  Ben  Adhem. 

To  A  LILY. — With  its  dainty  conceits  and  delicate  phrasing, 
this  poem  serves  as  another  good  example  of  the  lighter 
poetry  of  the  South.  Compare  it  with  Shaw's  Song,  Max 
well's  To  a  Fair  Lady,  Lamar's  The  Daughter  of  Mendoza, 
Pinkney's  A  Health,  Cooke's  Florence  Vane,  and  Peck's 
Phyllis. 

Line  62:  "Venus."  The  Roman  goddess  of  love  and  beau 
ty  was  supposed  to  have  sprung  from  the  foam  of  the  sea. 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE. 

ARMS  AND  THE  MAN. — The  poem  was  delivered  at  the  cele 
bration  of  the  one  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  surrender 
of  Cornwallis.  The  title  is  from  the  opening  words  of  Virgil's 
sEneid:  "Arma  virumque  cano." 

Line  19:  "Cromwell's  proffered  flow'rs."  Cromwell  en 
deavored  to  remove  the  New  England  colonists  to  Jamaica. 


248         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Line  24:  "Reap  the  seas."  They  became  fishermen  and 
sailors. 

Line  27 :  "Leviathan."  The  monster  mentioned  in  the 
book  of  Job. 

Line  35:  "Changed  to  gold."  The  Middle  Group,  espe 
cially  New  York  and  Pennsylvania,  became  wealthy  with  as 
tonishing  rapidity. 

Line  45 :  "Linked  Silver  Lakes."  The  expression  refers 
to  the  Erie  Canal,  which  owes  its  existence  to  the  energetic 
Dewitt  Clinton  (1769-1828),  once  governor  of  New  York. 

Line  53 :  "Uppowock."     An  old  name  for  tobacco. 

Line  55:  "Plenty's  Horn."  The  ancient  emblem,  or  sym 
bol,  known  as  the  cornucopia,  or  horn  of  plenty,  is  con 
tained  in  the  seal  of  North  Carolina. 

Line  58:  "Roanoke  Island."  In  1587  John  White  left  a 
company  of  colonists  on  Roanoke  Island.  Upon  his  return 
from  England,  he  could  find  scarcely  a  trace  of  them,  and 
for  over  three  centuries  the  mystery  has  remained  without 
accurate  solution.  It  is  believed  that  they  joined  the  Croa- 
tan  Indians,  a  tribe  now  living  in  Robeson  County,  N.  C. 
The  traditions,  speech,  and  family  names  of  these  Indians 
seem  to  confirm  this  theory. 

Line  60 :  "Opecancanough."  An  Indian  chief,  brother  of 
Powhatan. 

Line  73:  "Semi-feudal."  When  vast  estates  and  slavery 
existed  in  the  South,  the  conditions  in  society  were  some 
what  like  those  under  the  ancient  feudal  system. 

Line  86:  "Golden  Horse  Shoes."  Sec  the  note  to  Ticknor's 
Virginians  of  the  Valley. 

Line  88:  "Cavaliers."  Many  Virginia  families  are  de 
scendants  of  the  Cavaliers,  who  opposed  Cromwell. 

THE  CHARGE  AT  BALAKLAVA.— This  is  the  famous  charge 
described  by  Tennyson  in  his  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade, 
with  which  Hope's  poem  should  be  compared.  The  battle 
field  is  in  Southern  Russia,  near  the  Black  Sea,  and  the 
struggle  was  between  the  armies  of  England,  France,  Sar 
dinia,  and  Turkey,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  Russians  on  the 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHER^   POETRY.          H9 

other.  Through  a  mistake,  the  English  light  cavalry,  con 
sisting  of  600  men,  charged  into  the  thick  of  the  battle,  and 
only  150  escaped  death. 

SUNSET  ON  HAMPTON  ROADS. — These  famous  waters  off 
the  coast  of  Virginia  compose  one  of  the  finest  harbors  in  the 
world. 


HENRY  TIMROD. 

SONNET. — Timrod's  sonnets  are  among  the  finest  in  Amer 
ican  literature.  He  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  Wordsworth, 
and  their  sonnets  are  similar  in  their  seriousness,  simplicity, 
and  clearness. 

THE  SUMMER  BOWER. — This  poem  may  serve  as  a  good 
specimen  of  Timrod's  Nature-poetry.  It  will  be  seen  that 
he  gains  not  only  pleasure  but  a  moral  lesson  from  the 
beautiful  scene.  The  moral  lesson  here  should  be  compared 
with  that  in  Bryant's  Thanatopsis,  Lanier's  Sunrise,  and 
Longfellow's  Sunrise  on  the  Hills. 

CAROLINA. — Doubtless  this  is  the  finest  war  poem  written 
for  the*  Confederate  cause.  "In  Carolina  the  lyrical  passion 
of  Timrod  reaches  its  highest  point ;  ...  its  passionate 
fire,  its  lyrical  charm,  its  pulse  of  stormy  music,  place  it 
among  the  permanent  contributions  to  American  literature." 
(Hamilton  W.  Mabie,  in  The  Outlook,  1901.) 

Line  96:  "Children  of  the  hill."  Timrod  probably  had  in 
mind  the  people  of  the  northern  hill  country  of  South 
Carolina.  For  a  long  time  they  had  very  little  to  do  with 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Charleston  section;  and,  indeed,  the 
State  College  owes  its  origin  to  the  endeavors  to  unite  more 
firmly  the  two  peoples. 

Line  no:  "Eutaw's  battle-bed."  In  the  Revolutionary 
battle  at  Eutaw  Springs  the  Americans,  commanded  by  Gen 
eral  Green,  gained  the  victory. 

Line  114:  "Rutledge,"  "Laurens."  John  Rutledge  was 
President  of  South  Carolina  from  1776  to  1778,  and  was 


250         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

afterwards  Governor.  John  Laurens  was  a  young  American 
colonel  who  arose  from  a  sickbed  to  fight  the  British  in 
vaders  of  South  Carolina,  and  was  killed  in  the  first  conflict. 

Line  117:  "Marion."  General  Francis  Marion  (1732-1795), 
known  as  the  "Swamp  Fox,"  was  one  of  the  most  famous 
leaders  in  the  Revolutionary  War.  His  field  of  action  was, 
for  the  most  part,  in  his  native  State,  South  Carolina. 

Line  128:  "Huns."  The  Asiatic  tribe  that  invaded  Rome 
in  the  fourth  century.  Here  the  name  is  applied  to  the 
Union  troops. 

Line  133 :  "Sachem's  Head  to  Sumter's  wall."  Sachem's 
Head  is  a  mountain  in  northwestern  South  Carolina ;  while 
Sumter  is,  of  course,  the  famous  fort  near  Charleston. 

THE  COTTON  BOLL. — There  is  an  extraordinary  strength 
and  vividness  of  imagination  in  these  lines.  Says  Dr.  Barrett 
Wendell  in  his  Literary  History  of  America:  "The  sense  of 
Nature  which  it  reveals  is  as  fine,  as  true,  and  as  simple  as 
that  which  makes  so  nearly  excellent  Whittier's  poems  about 
New  England  landscape." 

Line  205 :  "Cirque."  Circle.  Notice  how  the  poet's  imagi 
nation  gradually  widens  until  it  includes  the  whole  world. 

Line  232:  "Uriel."  One  of  the  seven  angels  that  stand 
near  God's  throne.  Milton,  in  Paradise  Lost,  III.,  648-650, 
speaks  of  him  in  these  words : 

"The  archangel  Uriel,  one  of  the  seven 
Who  in  God's  presence,  nearest  to  his  throne, 
Stand  ready  at  command,  and  are  his  eyes." 

Line  265 :  "Poet  of  The  Woodlands.' "  William  Gilmore 
Simms  (1806-1870),  novelist,  poet,  and  literary  leader  of  the 
South  before  the  Civil  War,  whose  home,  "The  Woodlands," 
was  near  Charleston,  was  one  of  Timrod's  truest  and  most 
inspiring  friends. 

Line  300:  "Cornwall."  The  reference  is  to  the  tin  and 
coal  mines  of  Cornwall,  England,  which  extend  out  under 
the  bed  of  the  ocean. 

Line  329:  "Goth."  The  Goths  were  fierce  northern  tribes 
which  invaded  Rome.  Here  the  Union  soldiers  are  meant. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN    POETRY.          25! 

Line  334:  "The  Port  which  ruled  the  Western  seas."  The 
'Tort"  is  New  York,  which  many  Southerners  believed  was 
unjustly  usurping  American  commerce. 

The  Cotton  Boll  should  be  compared  with  such  poems  as 
Lanier's  Corn  and  Sunrise,  Hayne's  In  the  Wheat  Field, 
Whitman's  Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking,  and  Bayard 
Taylor's  The  Romance  of  Maize. 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 

LYRIC  OF  ACTION.— A  man  wrote  Hayne,  declaring  that  he 
had  been  saved  from  suicide  by  this  poem.  It  is  one  of  the 
few  poems  in  which  Hayne  is  hortatory. 

Line  27:  "The  seraph  who  rules  in  the  sun."  See  the 
note  to  Uriel,  under  the  selections  from  Timrod.  "And  I 
saw  an  angel  standing  in  the  sun."  (Revelation  xixr^i;.) 

Line  37 :  "To  seek  new  homes  on  far  Italian  plains."  Such 
a  migration  took  place  in  708  B.C. 

Line  38:  "Apollo's  oracle."  Apollo  was  the  Greek  god  of 
music  and  prophecy.  Among  his  oracles  the  most  famous 
was  at  Delphi. 

Line  57 :  "Aethra."    The  word  means  "clear  sky." 
Line   61 :    "Tarentum."     A    city,    now    known    as    Taranto, 
situated  in  Southern  Italy. 

MY  STUDY.— This  poem,  which  was  published  in  1859,  re 
fers  to  the  poet's  home  at  Charleston,  and  not  to  the  rude 
cottage  where  he  spent  his  later  years.  These  lines  reveal 
Hayne's  quiet,  meditative  nature. 

Line  73:  "Arcadies."  The  inhabitants  of  Arcady,  a  dis 
trict  of  Greece,  were  simple  in  their  tastes  and  very  happy; 
hence  a  place  where  life  is  exceedingly  plain  and  happy  is 
frequently  called  "Arcady." 

THE  MOCKING  BIRD.— "There  is  probably  no  bird  in  the 
world  that  possesses  all  the  musical  qualifications  ^  of  this 
king  of  song,  who  has  derived  all  from  Nature's  self." 
(Audubon.)  More  than  thirty  of  the  better-known  American 


252          THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

poets  have  written  about  this  bird,  among  them  being  Pike, 
Wilde,  Meek,  Timrod,  Lanier,  Longfellow,  and  Whitman. 
Compare  Hayne's  poem  with  Wordsworth's  To  the  Skylark, 
Shelley's  To  a  Skylark,  Keats's  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  Shakes 
peare's  Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark,  Whitman's  Out  of  the  Cradle 
Endlessly  Rocking,  and  with  the  various  poems  about  the 
nightingale  given  in  this  volume. 

Line  96:  "It  rose  in  dazzling  spirals  overhead."  It  is  a 
fact  that  the  mocking  bird  rises,  in  its  singing,  from  bough 
to  bough,  the  loudest  and  sweetest  music  being  produced 
when  the  top  of  the  tree  is  reached. 

THE  PINE'S  MYSTERY. — Hayne  loved  the  pine  tree.  Among 
his  poems  on  this  subject  are  Under  the  Pines,  The  Axe  and 
the  Pine,  In  the  Pine  Barrens,  The  Dryad  of  the  Pines, 
Aspect  of  the  Pines,  and  The  Voice  of  the  Pines. 

Line  1 13 :  "Ghana."    A  gypsy  dancer. 

Line  118:  "Monotone."  The  reference  is  to  the  moaning 
sound  continually  produced  in  the  pines  by  the  wind. 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL. 

Line  5 :  "Patriotic  gore."  The  reference  is  to  the  rioting 
that  took  place  during  the  passage  of  Massachusetts  troops 
through  Baltimore,  April,  1861. 

Line  21:  "Carroll."  A  Maryland  patriot  (1737-1832),  and 
signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  He  was  for  some 
time  the  sole  survivor  of  the  famous  group  whose  names 
appear  on  the  document. 

Line  22:  "Howard."  John  Eager  Howard  (1752-1827) 
was  a  Maryland  officer  whose  troops  won  the  battle  of 
Cowpens. 

Line  29:  "Ringgold."  A  Maryland  officer  (1800-1840)  who 
was  killed  at  Palo  Alto  in  the  Mexican  War. 

Line  30:  "Watson."  Colonel  William  Watson,  of  Balti 
more,  was  killed  at  Monterey  during  the  Mexican  War. 

Line  31 :  "Lowe."  Enoch  Lewis  Lowe  was  a  soldier  in  the 
Mexican  War,  and  afterwards  Governor  of  Maryland. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          253 

Line  31:  "May."  Charles  Augustus  May  (1817-1864),  of 
Maryland,  was  a  conspicuous  leader  at  the  battle  of  Monte 
rey. 

Line  38 :  "Sic  semper."  A  portion  of  the  Latin  motto :  Sic 
semper  tyrannis  ("Thus  ever  with  tyrants"). 

Line  59:  "Vandal."  The  Vandals,  or  Goths,  were  a  wild 
Germanic  tribe  that  plundered  Rome  in  455. 

Line  72:  "Northern  scum."  This  expression  is  another 
instance  of  the  unreasoning  bitterness  that  sprang  into  ex 
istence  just  before  the  long  conflict. 


ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN. 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. — This  poem,  which  is  said  to 
have  been  written  at  Knoxville,  Tenn.,  shortly  after  Lee's 
surrender,  was  first  published  in  The  Banner  of  the  South, 
March,  1868. 

NIGHT  THOUGHTS.— When  this  poem  was  first  published, 
in  The  Banner  of  the  South,  June,  1870,  it  bore  the  title, 
Night  Thoughts;  but  in  the  volume  of  his  collected  poems  it 
is  called  The  Rosary  of  My  Tears. 

Line  80:  "Better  a  day  of  strife."  This  sentiment  is  very 
true  to  Ryan.  He  was  a  man  of  great  energy  and  passionate 
feelings. 

THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE.— To  this  day  the  chief  heroes 
of  the  Confederate  cause  are  Lee  and  Stonewall  Jackson.  In 
sincerity,  earnestness,  bravery,  and  positive  manliness,  the 
four  illustrious  men  produced  by  those  terrible  times,  Lin 
coln,  Grant,  Lee,  and  Jackson,  have  scarcely  been  equaled  in 
all  history. 

SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC. — Again  the  sentiment  is  true  to  the 
poet.  In  this  poem  we  see  something  of  Ryan's  life,  with  its 
passions,  struggles,  and  final  victories.  Compare  with  it  Long 
fellow's  Psalm  of  Life,  Newman's  Lead,  Kindly  Light,  Ten 
nyson's  Crossing  the  Bar,  Lanier's  Sunrise,  and  Poe's  The 
Conqueror  Worm. 


254          THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


SIDNEY  LANIER. 

A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER. — In  this  first  selec 
tion  we  find  two  leading  characteristics  of  Lanier :  love  of 
Nature  and  admiration  for  the  pure  and  lofty.  Undoubtedly 
it  is  one  of  the  tenderest  poems  about  Jesus  ever  written. 

THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN. — This  is  the  first  one  of  four 
"Marsh  Hymns"  composed  by  Lanier.  It  was  his  intention 
to  write  six.  The  Marshes  of  Glynn  are  in  Glynn  County, 
near  Brunswick,  Ga.  Many  poets  have  sung  of  the  beauties 
of  mountains,  valleys,  and  seas;  but  Lanier,  in  his  descriptions 
of  marshes,  or  swamps,  is  almost  alone. 

Line  24:  "Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark 
woods."  Notice  throughout  the  entire  poem  the  use  of  allit 
eration,  the  repetition  of  certain  combinations  of  sounds,  the 
repetition  of  entire  phrases,  the  internal  rhymes,  and  the 
general  agreement  of  the  sound  with  the  sense. 

Line  30:  "Arras."    Hangings,  or  tapestry. 

Line  31 :  "Pleasure  of  prayer."  The  deeply  religious 
nature  of  Lanier  is  shown  here  as  in  many  other  lines  of 
his  poems.  While  too  broad  for  special  creeds,  he  was  in 
deed  a  lover  of  what  he  so  often  called  the  "beauty  of 
holiness." 

Line  41 :  "My  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul  of  the 
oak."  This  is  but  one  of  the  many  lines  which  might  be 
quoted  to  show  the  poet's  passionate  love  for  Nature  in  all 
her  forms. 

Line  84:  "Catholic."     Broad-minded,  expansive,  universal. 

Line  87:  "As  the  marsh  hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery 
sod."  In  all  American  literature  there  can  scarcely  be  found 
lines  expressing  such  an  unfaltering  trust  in  God. 

Line  105 :  "Farewell,  my  lord  Sun."  These  words  may 
be  compared  with  the  last  lines  of  Sunrise: 

"Oh,  never  the  mast-high  run  of  the  seas 

Of  traffic  shall  hide  thee, 

Never  the  hell-colored  smoke  of  the  factories 
Hide  thee, 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY.          255 

Never  the  reek  of  the  time's  fen-politics 

Hide  thee, 
And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall  with  knowledge 

abide  thee, 

And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one  that  hath  tried  thee, 
Labor,  at  leisure,  in  art— till  yonder  beside  thee 
My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 
The  day  being  done." 

SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE.— Dr.  Charles  W.  Kent  has 
said  of  this  poem:  "It  sings  itself,  and  yet  nowhere  sacri 
fices  the  thought.  Poe's  Ulalume  and  Tennyson's  Brook,  or 
whatever  other  poem  you  may  choose  with  which  to  com 
pare  this  highest  achievement  of  our  artist's  musical  art,  will 
find  in  this  a  fair  and  unyielding  competitor." 

Line  122:  "Habersham."  The  Chattahoochce  runs  through 
Habersham  and  Hall  Counties,  in  Northeast  Georgia. 

Line  134:  "The  rushes  cried,  Abide,  abide."  Notice  the 
effective  comparisons  to  the  temptations  of  life.  Compare  this 
poem  with  Tennyson's  Brook,  Southey's  Cataract  of  Lodorc, 
Poe's  Ulalume  (for  technical  qualities),  and  Hayne's  The 
River  and  The  Meadow  Brook. 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER. 

POE'S  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM.— During  the  year  1846-47  Poe 
and  his  wife  lived  in  a  small  cottage  at  Fordham,  near 
New  York  City,  and  there  on  January  30,  1847,  the  beloved 
wife  died. 

Line  9:  "Wintry  winds  and  cheerless."  The  winter  spent 
in  this  little  cottage  was  one  of  poverty  and  distress  to  the 
Poes. 

Line  19 :  "Lost  star  of  seven."  One  of  the  Pleiades.  See 
Simms's  The  Lost  Pleiad. 

Line  23:  "Suspected  powers."  The  reference  is  to  the 
misfortunes  which  Poe  surely  saw  approaching  and  which 
he  knew  he  could  not  escape. 


256         THREE  CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY. 

Line  25 :  "Apollo."    The  god  of  music. 

Line  26:  "Astarte."  Ashtoreth,  the  goddess  of  the  moon, 
often  identified  with  Venus,  the  goddess  of  love  and  beauty. 

Line  28 :  "Dis."     Pluto,  the  god  of  the  dark  underworld. 

Line  33:  "Proud,  mad,  but  not  defiant."  This  is  a  true 
picture  of  Poe  until  his  wife's  death.  For  some  time  after 
that  catastrophe  he  seemed  but  a  wreck,  without  pride,  with 
out  ambition. 

Line  40:  "Israfel."  The  singing  angel  spoken  of  in  the 
Koran  and  taken  by  Poe  as  the  subject  of  one  of  his  most 
musical  poems. 

Line  55:  "Malice  that  belied  him."  Many  of  the  evil  re 
ports  about  Poe's  habits  and  death  were  originated  by  ene 
mies  whom  he  had  made  by  his  harsh  literary  criticisms. 

THE  LIGHT'OOD  FIRE.— "Light'ood"   is  the  term  often  used 
for  "lightwood,"  or  pine  firewood,  in  the  mountains  of  North 
Carolina  and  Tennessee. 
Line  71 :  "Bpreas."    The  north  wind. 


CARLYLE  McKINLEY. 

SAPELO.— Sapelo  Island  is  near  Darien,  Ga. 
Line  28.    Five  stanzas  are  omitted  at  this  point 
Line  48.    Two  stanzas  are  omitted  at  this  point. 
Line  64.     Six  stanzas  are  omitted  at  this  point. 


WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON. 

GETTYSBURG.— The  battle  of4  Gettysburg  began  on  July  i, 
1863,  and  continued  until  July  4-  After  one  of  the  most 
desperate  struggles  in  history,  the  Union  forces,  under  Gen 
eral  Meade,  overcame  the  Confederates  under  General  Robert 
E.  Lee.  The  Federals  took  13,621  prisoners. 

Line  6:   "Lee."    Robert  E.   Lee   (1807-1870),   Commander 


THREE   CENTURIES  OF   SOUTHERN   POETRY.          257 

in  Chief  of  the  Confederate  army,  graduated  at  the  head  of 
his  class  at  West  Point  in  1829,  served  in  the  Mexican  War, 
was  Superintendent  of  West  Point  from  1852  to  1855,  re 
signed  his  commission  as  colonel  in  the  United  States  army 
in  1861  to  take  charge  of  the  Confederate  forces,  and  after 
the  war  became  President  of  Washington  College  (after 
wards  Washington  and  Lee  University),  Lexington,  Va. 

Line  8:  "Pickett."  George  E.  Pickctt  (1825-1875)  gradu 
ated  at  West  Point  in  1846,  served  through  the  Mexican 
War,  and,  as  a  Confederate  general,  became  noted  for  his 
almost  reckless  bravery. 

Line  13:  "Shiloh."  The  battle  of  Shiloh  was  fought  on 
April  6  and  7,  1862,  at  Pittsburg  Landing,  Tenn.  After  a 
most  bloody  struggle,  General  Grant  overcame  the  Confed 
erate  leaders,  A.  S.  Johnston  and  Beauregard. 

Line  14:  "Chickamauga."  On  September  19  and  20,  1863, 
the  Confederates,  under  Bragg,  met  the  Federals,  under  Rose- 
crans,  at  Chickamauga,  about  twelve  miles  east  of  Chatta 
nooga,  and,  after  heavy  losses  had  been  sustained  by  both 
armies,  the  Union  troops  retired. 

Line  17:  "Pettigrew."  James  Johnston  Pcttigrew  (1828- 
1863),  a  brigadier  general  of  Confederate  forces,  was  badly 
wounded  at  Gettysburg,  where  he  had  charge  of  a  division. 

Line  20:  "Waterloo."  On  June  18,  1815,  the  forces  of 
England,  Holland,  Belgium,  Hanover,  Brunswick,  Nassau, 
Prussia,  Saxony,  and  other  European  States,  under  the  com 
mand  of  Wellington  and  Bliicher,  met  Napoleon's  army  near 
Waterloo,  in  Belgium,  and  routed  it. 

Line  21:  "Kemper."  James  Lawson  Kemper  (1823-1895), 
a  brigadier  general  in  the  Confederate  army,  was  severely 
wounded  and  was  captured  at  Gettysburg. 

Line  22:  "Garnett."  Robert  Selden  Garnett  (1821-1861) 
was  a  Confederate  officer  killed  at  Carrick's  Ford. 

Line  25:  "Armistead."  Lewis  A.  Armistead,  a  brigadier 
general  in  the  Confederate  army,  was  killed  at  Gettysburg. 

Line   35:    "Doubleday."     General   Abner   Doubleday    (1820- 
1893)  had  charge  of  a  Union  corps  at  Gettysburg. 
17 


258         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN   POETRY. 


IRWIN  RUSSELL. 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  IN  THE  QUARTERS.— This  poem  appeared 
in  Scribner's  Magazine  January,  1878.  The  "quarters"  was 
the  term  formerly  applied  to  the  group  of  negro  cabins  on 
the  plantation. 

Line  46:  "Buck-kannon."  Buchanan.  It  was  formerly  a 
custom  to  name  oxen  after  the  Presidents. 

Line  59:  "  Tis  books  that  show  us  how  to  think."  In  this 
line  Russell  gives  a  sharp  rap  at  our  modern  ideas  concerning 
the  importance  of  books  in  the  development  of  an  educated, 
thinking  man.  Is  he  right  or  wrong? 

Line  81 :  "You  knows."  Notice  the  unconventional  way  of 
addressing  God.  The  Creator  was  a  most  personal  God  to 
the  old-time  negro  preacher. 

Line  91 :  "A-feelin'  like  King  David  when  he  cut  de  pigeon 
wing."  "And  David  danced  before  the  Lord  with  all  his 
might."  (2  Samuel  vi.  14-) 

Line    101 :    "We'll   need   de   blessin'    more'n   ef   we's   doin' 
right."     Is  there  any  defect  in  this  logic? 
Line  103:  "Sheriffs."     Seraphs. 

Line  112:  "Sound  his  A."  The  "A"  string  is  the  one  to 
which  the  other  violin  strings  are  tuned. 

Line  147:  "Georgy  Sam."  It  is  still  a  custom  among  the 
negroes  to  place  before  the  name  of  a  conspicuous  character 
the  name  of  his  native  State. 

Line  189:  "Herald"  The  reference  is  probably  to  the 
Vicksburg  (Miss.)  Herald,  a  paper  for  which  Russell  did 
some  work. 

Line  191 :  "Natchez."  A  famous  steamboat  on  the  Mis 
sissippi. 

Line  198:  "Morgan."  A  large  and  exceedingly  strong 
breed  of  horses. 

Line  203:  "Bitters."    A  drink  composed  mainly  of  rum. 
Line  240:  "He  climbs  the  fence."     Notice  the  lack  of  dig 
nity  in  Santa  Claus's  departure. 


THREE   CENTURIES   OF  SOUTHERN    POETRY.          259 

HENRY  JEROME  STOCKARD. 
Line  3 :  "Triton."    A  god  of  the  sea. 
Line  3:  "Nereids."     Sea  nymphs. 
Line  4:  "Poseidon."    Neptune,  lord  of  the  sea. 
Line  5:  "Pan."     A  god  of  the  Greek  shepherds,  and  later 
a  war  god. 


YATES  SNOWDEN. 

Line  60:  "Drap  d'ete."    Clothes  in  the  latest  fashion. 
Line  66:  "Emigre."    Emigrant. 

Line  73:  "Loyal  je  serai  durant  ma  vie."  I  shall  be  loyal 
throughout  my  life. 

MADISON  CAWEIN. 

Line  66:  "Thou  wouldst  not  have  her  weep."  This  is  the 
idea,  which  has^  persisted  through  all  ages,  that  the  souls  of 
the  departed  rejoice  and  sorrow  with  the  living.  The  senti 
ment  is  expressed  in  a  masterly  manner  in  Rossetti's  The 
Blessed  Daniozel. 

Line  80:  "Hast  thou  not  all,  all  that  thou  ever  hadst?"  The 
expression  refers,  of  course,  to  the  nature,  or  soul,  of  a 
fellow-being,  the  part  that  we  really  love.  Although  the 
flesh  may  disappear  in  death,  the  characteristics  and  the  per 
sonality  of  the  departed  live  on  in  our  memory.  Is  there 
much  consolation,  however,  in  this  thought  to  one  who  has 
lost  a  friend?  Do  we  not  mourn,  to  no  small  degree,  for 
the  loss  of  the  fleshly  form? 


LIZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE. 

Line  i:  "Brambles."  Notice  throughout  the  poem  one  of 
the  main  characteristics  of  Southern  poetry — a  sincere  love 
for  Nature.  The  luxuriant  vegetation  and  noble  scenery 
have  lost  none  of  that  effect  which  in  the  past  inspired  Pike, 
Timrod,  Hayne,  Lanier,  and  a  host  of  others. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

American  Anthology.     Stedman.     Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

American   Authors.     Rutherford.     Franklin   Publishing   Co. 

American  Literature.     Hart.     Eldridge  Brothers. 

American  Sonnets.     Stedman.     Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

American  Encyclopedia.    D.  Appleton  &  Co. 

Bivouac  of  the  Dead  and  Its  Author.    Ranck. 

Cyclopedia  of  American  Biography.    D.  Appleton  &  Co. 

Ballad  History  of  the  American  Revolution.     Moore. 

Colonial  Literature.    Trent  and  Wells. 

Colonial  and  Revolutionary  Periods.     Tyler. 

Contemporaries.    Higginson. 

Cyclopedia  of  American  Literature.     Duychinck. 

DeBow's  Commercial  Review. 

Dictionary  of  Authors.    Allibone. 

Essays  and  Notes.    Bayard  Taylor. 

Female  Poets  of  America.    Griswold. 

Golden  Leaves  from  American  Poets.     (Boston,  1865.) 

History    of    Virginia.     Cooke.     (American    Commonwealth 
Series.) 

History  of  Southern  Literature.    Holliday.     Neale  Co. 

In  the  Poe  Circle.     Benton. 

Library  of  American  Literature.     Stedman  and  Hutchinson. 
Charles  L.  Webster  &  Co. 

Library  of   the   World's  Best  Literature.    Warner.    R.   S. 
Peale  and  J.  A.  Hill. 

Life  of  William  Gilmore  Simms.    Trent.     (American  Men 
of  Letters  Series.) 

Life    of    Poe.    Woodberry.     (American    Men    of    Lett 

Series.) 

Life  of  Lamer.    Minis.    Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

Life,  Literary  Labors,  and  Neglected  Grave  of  R.  H.  Wilde. 
Jones. 

Literary  History  of  America.    Wendell. 
(260) 


THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY.          26 1 

Literati  of  New  York.    Poe. 

Literature    of    the    Virginias.     Ogden.     Independent    Pub 
lishing  Co. 

Living    Writers    of    the    South.    Davidson.     (New    York, 
1869.) 

Louisiana    Studies.    Fortier.    F.    F.    Hansell.      (New    Or 
leans.) 

Memorial  of  Sidney  Lanier.     Gilman. 

Mind  and  Art  of  Poe.     Fruit. 

National   Cyclopedia    of   American    Biography     James    F 
White  &  Co. 

Negro  Minstrelsy,  Ancient  and  Modern.    Trux. 

New  International  Encyclopedia.     Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 

Oddities  in  Southern  Life  and  Character.     Watterson. 

Pioneers  of  Southern  Literature.     Link. 

Poets  and  Poetry  of  America.     Griswold. 

Poets  of  America.    Stedman. 

Publications  of  Modern  Language  Association. 

Publications  of  the  Mississippi  Historical  Society. 

Questions  at  Issue.     Gosse. 

Sewanee  Review.     (Sewanee,  Tenn.) 

^Slave  Songs  of  the  United  States.    Allen,  Ware,  and  Gar 
rison. 

Songs  and  Ballads.    Moore. 

Songs  of  the  Slave.     Brown. 

Songs  of  the  South.     Clark.     Lippincott. 

South  Atlantic  Quarterly.     (Durham,  N.  C.) 

Southern  Literary  Messenger   (1834-1863). 

Southern   Writers.     Trent.     Macmillan   Co. 

Southern  Writers  Series.     Baskervill. 

Southland   Writers.     Raymond. 

Southern    Literature.    Manly.     B.    F.    Johnson    Publishing 
Company. 

Southern   Quarterly  Review.     (1842-1855.) 

Southern  Review.     (Baltimore.) 

_   Southern   Poetry  Prior   to   1860.     B.   F.    Johnson    Publish 
ing  Company. 

Southern  Poets.    Abernathy.     Maynard,  Merrill  &  Co. 


262         THREE  CENTURIES  OF  SOUTHERN  POETRY. 

Southern  Poets.    Weber.    Macmillan  Company. 
Southern  Writers.    Baskervill. 
The  Holy  Grail.     Scherer.    Lippincott  Company. 
The  Land  We  Love.     (1865-1869.) 
The  Old  South.    Page. 
Under  the  Microscope.    Swinburne. 

War    Songs    and    Poems    of    the    Southern    Confederacy. 
Wharton.     (  Philadelphia. ) 

Women  of  the  South  in  Literature.     Forrest. 
Younger  American  Poets.     Sladen. 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 
A 

Aethra    155 

Ahab    Mohammed 130 

Allston,    Washington 39 

Alsop,  George 22 

Annabel   Lee 72 

Arms  and  the  Man 133 


Bacon's    Epitaph 23 

Ballad  of  Trees   and  the 

Master,    A 175 

Battle   Cry  of  Freedom..   112 

Battle  Rainbow,  The 128 

Beechenbrook    116 

Beginnings,  The 13 

Bells,    The 69 

Bessie  Brown,  M.D 207 

Bivouac  of  the  Dead1,  The.    98 

Blessed  Hand,  The 94 

Boner,  John  Henry 182 

Bonnie  Bine  Flag,  The. . .   113 
Brackenridge,  Hugh  Hen 
ry    32 

Branch  of  May,  A 228 


Call  All 112 

Calling  the  Angels  In...  116 

Captain's  Feather,  The...  208 

Carolina   145 

Carolina  Bourbon,  A 217 

Cawein,  Madison 224 


PAGE. 

Charge      at      Balaklava, 

The    136 

Children,  The 223 

Christmas    Night    in    the 

Quarters   197 

Civil  War  Period,  The..  103 

Civil  War   Songs in 

Closing  Year,   The 58 

Colonial  Ballads 1 16 

Comes  One  with  a  Song.  213 

Conquered    Banner,    The.  162 

Conqueror  Worm,  The..  .  80 

Cook,    Ebenezer 25 

Cook,  Philip   Pendleton..  92 

Corn    174 

Cotton  Boll,  The 147 


Dabney,    Richard 44 

Dandridge,  Danske 219 

Daughter     of     Mendoza, 

The   53 

Days  of  My  Youth 35 

Dead,  The 109 

Dead  Moon,  The 220 

Death   of  General   Mont 
gomery,    The 34 

Death  of  Winter,  The 195 

Dedication    194 

Disenchantment  of  Death.  225 


English  Novel,  The 174 

(263) 


264 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 

Epigram  Imitated  from 
Archias,  An 44 

Eulogy  of  George  Wash 
ington,  The 32 

Every  Year. . .    86 

Expansion,  The  Period 
of  47 


Farewell  to  America,  A..  51 

Florence  Vane 92 

From  Cliff  and  Scaur. .  . .  223 

Froissart    Ballads 92 


General   Surveys. 

15,  29,  49,  105,  171 

God's   Acres 94 

Grady,    Henry 171 

Grapevine  Swing,  The. 62,  209 
Grave  in  Hollywood 

Cemetery,  Richmond,  A  120 

H 

Half-Ring  Moon,  The....  185 
Harris,  Joel  Chandler....  197 
Harrison,  Mrs.  Burton.  .  159 
Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton. 

123,  141,  152 

Hayne,     William     Hamil 
ton   212 

Health,   A 55 

Heart's  Quest,  The 186 

Heaven   109 

He  Goes  to  Court 26 

He  Meets  a  Quaker 25 

Hero    of    the    Commune, 
The    .  .118 


PAGE. 
High  Tide  at  Gettysburg, 

The    191 

Homer  216 

Hope,  James  Barren 133 

Hymns  of  the  Marshes...   175 
Hymns  to  the  Gods 82 


Immortality    39 

In  a  King-Cambyses  Vein.  186 

In    de    Mornin' no 

In  Sorrow's  Hour 228 

Israfel    67 

I    Wonder    What    Maud 

Will   Say 207 

J 

Jackson,    Stonewall 119 

Joy  and  Other  Poems 219 

K 

Key,   Francis    Scott 40 

Knot  of  Blue,  A 207 


Lamar,    Mirabeati    Bona 
parte    53 

Land  of  the   South 88 

Lanier,    Sidney 141,  173 

Last  of  the  Hours,  The.  .     94 

Lay  Dis  Body  Down in 

Legare,  James  Mathewes.  130 

Legends  and  Lyrics 153 

Life  of  Hugh  S.  Legare.   153 
Life  of  Robert  Y.  Hayne.  153 

Light  on  the  Hills 214 

Light'ood  Fire,  The 184 

Lines  to  a  Lady 58 

Little  Folks  Down  South.  213 


INDEX. 


26S 


PAGE 

Little   Giffen 123 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wads- 
worth    152 

Lost  Pleiad,  The 62 

Love  and  a  Day 227 

Lyric   of  Action 154 

Lyrics  and  Idylls 224 

M 

Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright. 

153,  175 

Malone,    Walter 229 

Marshes  of  Glynn,  The. .  175 

Maryland,   My   Maryland.  112 

Maxwell,    William 43 

McKinley,  Carlyle 188 

Meek,    Alexander    Beau 
fort    88 

Mocking  Bird,   The... 90,  156 
Mountain   of  the  Lovers, 

The   153 

Mourner's    Song 108 

Munford,    William 36 

Music  and  Poetry 174 

Music    in    Camp I26 

My  Maryland 159 

My   Star. T86 

My   Study I56 

N 

Newes  from  Virginia...!      17 

New    South,   The 169 

Night   Thoughts 164 

O 

October    j^g 

O'Hara,   Theodore 98 

Old  Songs  and   New..    .  116 


PAGE. 

On  the  Late  S.  T.  Cole 
ridge    4o 

Orta-Undis    130 

Outcast  and  Other  Poems, 
The    229 


Page,  Thomas  Nelson...   197 

Partisan,  The 61 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn...  206 
Period      of      Expansion, 

The  47 

Phyllis    210 

Pike,    Albert 82 

Pine's  Mystery,  The 157 

Pinkney,  Edward  Coate..     54 

Plantation   Melodies 107 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan. 

65,    141,  152 

Poems  by  Amelia 97 

Poe's    Cottage    at    Ford- 
ham  182 

Portrait   of    Henry   Tim- 
rod,    A 229 

Prentice,  George  Denison.     57 

Preston,   Margaret 116 

Procne's  Revenge 21 


Randall,  James  Ryder...  158 

Raven,  The 73 

Red    Eagle 88 

Red  Leaves  and  Roses...  224 
Reese,      Lizette      Wood- 
worth  228 

Resignation  34 

Revolutionary          Period, 
The    .  07 


266 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 

Rich,    R 17 

Roll,  Jordan,  Roll 108 

Rosa   Lee 92 

Russell,   Irwin 19° 

Russell's   Magazine 152 

Ryan,   Abram  Joseph....  161 

S 

Sandys,  George 20 

Sapelo  189 

Sass,   George   Herbert...   186 
Savannah  Freeman's  Song. 

no 
Science  of  English  Verse, 

The    174 

Sea  Mark,  The 19 

Serenade,  A 57 

Shade  of  the  Trees,  The.  119 

Shaw,    John 

Simms,  William  Gilmore. 

61,  152 

Sledd,    Benjamin 223 

Sleep    and    His    Brother 

Death    212 

Smith,  John 19 

Snowden,    Yates 216 

Soldier  Boy,  The H5 

Song  3° 

Song  in  March 64 

Song    of   the    Chattahoo- 

chee    174, 

Song  of  the  Mystic i6( 

Songs  and  Poems  of  the 

South    & 

Songs  from  Dixie  Land..  21, 
Songs  of  Dusk  and  Dawn.  22 
Songs      of      North      and 
South    22 


PAGE. 

onnet    .................  T42 

Sot-Weed  Factors,  The..     25 
Southrons,      Hear     Your 
Country   Qall  You  .....   112 

pirit     and     the     Wood 
Sparrow,    The  .........  222 

Stanton,  Frank  Lebby....  213 

Stanzas    .................     5° 

Star  -  Spangled       Banner, 
The    ..................     4i 

Stars  Begin  to  Fall  ......   in 

tockard,   Henry   Jerome.  215 
Stoddard,  Richard  Henry.  142 
Summer  Bower,  The....   143 

Sunrise    .................   J74 

Sunset       on        Hampton 
Roads    ................  140 

Swinburne,    Algernon 
Charles    ...............   152 

Swing  Low,  Sweet  Char 
iot    ...................   ion 

Sword     of     Robert     Lee, 
The   ..................   165 


Tabb,  John  Banister  .....   185 

Taylor,  Bayard  ..........  152 

There'll  Come  a  Day  ----   122 

Thompson,     John      Reu 
ben    ..................  125 

Thompson,   Maurice  ......   191 

Thompson,  Will  Henry..   191 
Three  Summer  Studies..   137 
Ticknor,   Francis   Orrery.  122 
Tiger  Lilies  .............   174 

Timrod,  Henry  .......  141,  *52 

To  a  Fair  Lady  .........     43 

To  a  Lily  ...............  J32 


INDEX. 


267 


PAGE. 

To  Anne 43 

To  a  Seashell 97 

To  My  Daughter  Lily...  92 

To  One  in  Paradise 79 

To    Spring 84 

To  the  Mocking  Bird.. 51,  82 

Triumph  of  Hector,  The.  36 

Triumph  of  Music 224 

Truth    and    Reason 94 

Tucker,  St.  George 34 

Twilight  at   Sea 97 

U 

Up  from  Georgia 213 

Upon  a  Purple  Cap 22 


Vale  of  Tempe,   The 224 

Virginia  Hearts  of  Oak..     30 


PAGE. 

Virginians  of  the  Valley.  124 
Votive  Song 56 

W 

Wallis,  Severn  Teackle..  94 
Warren's  Last  Words...  33 
Watchers  of  the  Hearth, 

The   223 

Welby,  Amelia 97 

Wharton,  Charles  Henry.    31 

Whippoorwill,   The 224 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf.  152 
Wilde,  Richard  Henry..  50 
Wilson,  Robert  Burns, , , ,  194 


Yemassee,    The 61 

Youth  and  Age 45 

Yule  Log,  The 212 


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